


Waiting in the Wings

by Ylixia



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Canonical Character Ressurection, Grief, M/M, Mourning, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Polyamory, SHIELD Husbands, The Cellist - Freeform, assasin bros, deaf!Clint, platonic physical affection, some suicidal themes, where in the mcu is clint barton
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-01-20 00:52:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1490644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ylixia/pseuds/Ylixia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint's husband is dead, the Avengers are scattered, and the world is forever changed by the Battle of New York.  </p>
<p>This is what happens next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Quiet Birds in Circled Flight

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the complete lack of Clint in the MCU so far. I love Hawkeye, and I miss him, so we're going to watch the journey so far through his eyes. This project is ongoing and will be completely canon compatible (minus a detail or two here or there) up until Avengers 2, when I suspect everything I write will be Jossed.
> 
> It's the journey that counts, after all :)
> 
> (beta by the lovely [rainonsand](http://rainonsand.tumblr.com/). Thank you so much!)

Even later, after the shock wears off and black, crushing grief begins to take it's place, he honestly doesn't blame Natasha for not telling him right away.

This is how they work: He sees best from a distance, she sees best up close. If she thought she needed to keep this information from him to keep his head in the game, to keep him alive, then he trusts that it was the right call. He thinks about going up against a force they had never, could never prepare for, and he thinks about how easy it would have been, if he had known. Not that he'd kill himself on purpose, never that, but jumping off buildings isn't something to do without one hundred percent uncompromised focus and if he'd fucked up the timing or landed wrong or fumbled his grip he wouldn't even have had time to wonder if it was an honest mistake or a subconscious choice. And then after, capturing Loki, well. He's not even going to pretend he would have hesitated to put that arrow in his eye. An exploding one, too, interplanetary politics be damned.

He's still having a little trouble accepting that _not_ doing so was the right call.

But right now, in the shwarma shop (Clint is tiredly amused about Stark's priorities), Clint is still blissfully ignorant. The silence around the table is strangely comfortable, given they still don't know each other – and, honestly, are still more chemical mixture than team – but Clint's not surprised, not really. He's familiar with the forced camaraderie that comes from having the back of a stranger and taking a leap of faith that they have yours and emerging from the fire together. It's almost comforting. Tomorrow, doubtlessly, everything will go back to normal and nothing will truly change, but for now he's content to hike up his feet on Nat's chair and shovel food in his mouth until exhaustion overtakes hunger and he crashes for a billion hours.

Maybe he can convince Phil to crash with him, this time around. Usually it's pointless to try to make him stay home after a crisis – crises generate a lot of paperwork – but this time... well. This time is different. He wants Phil, warm and safe in their bed. He wants to run his hands over him and reassure himself that they're both still alive, that the damage he did in Loki's thrall hadn't ruined everything. He wants so desperately to sleep, and he knows the dreams will be awful but it'll be okay with Phil there to talk him down from them like he always does after an op gone sideways.

The cheerfully ringing bell as the door opens is almost comical in its normalcy in the wake of so much destruction. Clint doesn't even bother looking up at first because Natasha is sitting with a clear line of sight to the door, but the way she tenses and avoids his gaze sends his internal alarm bells ringing almost immediately. No one else seems particularly alarmed. Stark and Rogers just look confused, which Clint can sympathize with before he turns to look at the doorway and the bottom drops out of his stomach.

“No.” The denial drops soft and broken from Clint's lips as he stares at Fury, wide-eyed and pleading. Fury's face, usually impassive to anything but anger and paternal disapproval, just looks _sad._ Nat puts a hand on his ankle and squeezes, still not looking at him.

“Hey Fury, come to join the victory party?” Stark quips, though he shoots Clint a concerned look. “As it turns out, shwarma is awesome. Cap here ate most of it, but that's what you get for showing up late.”

“No thank you, Stark,” his voice is soft and tired and he doesn't even bother rolling his eyes. “I need to speak with Agent Barton.”

“No,” Clint says again, his voice cracking on the word this time. “No no no please, god, _no._ ”

“Clint?” Rogers asks worriedly. “What's going on?”

_They don't know,_ he thinks to himself as he stumbles to his feet. They don't fucking _know_ and he absolutely does not want to do this in front of them. It's not right, he doesn't even know them, he shouldn't have to come out at the same time he hears about his--

He sways, lightheaded, and Natasha's there in an instant. She catches him and keeps him upright and it looks like they are doing this here because he's frozen, can't take one more step, and Nat is pressed all along his side like she's the only thing keeping him together. She's not wrong.

Fury hesitates for a moment, eyes flicking to the rest of the Avengers assembled behind him like he knows Clint doesn't want them to witness this, but Clint just stares at him mouthing his denial and waiting for the ax to fall.

He doesn't have to wait very long.

“Clint Barton,” Director Fury begins, his voice both formal and strangely gentle. “I regret to inform you that your husband, Phil Coulson, was fatally wounded during Loki's attack on the helicarrier-”

He knew it. He'd known before Fury'd even opened his mouth, but the words slice through him like knives. Nat doesn't bother trying to keep him up this time, just sinks with him to the floor and cradles him in her arms as the rushing in his ears drowns out Fury's words and the Avengers' exclamations of shock and confusion.

“Husband?”

“What, Agent was _married?_ I thought--”

“Oh my god, _Clint”_

“Clint.”

He doesn't respond to his name. He just stares straight ahead, eyes wide open and unseeing, and counts his breaths. _Inhale... 2... 3... 4... Hold... 2... 3... 4... Exhale... 2... 3... 4..._ Absurdly, he wishes for his bow in his hand, or even a gun, as if there's anything to shoot that would make this okay. As if anything would be okay again.

“Clint.” Fury repeats, crouching down to his level. “Look at me.” It's his _that's an order, Specialist,_ voice and Clint obeys automatically, but the man whose eyes he meets isn't Directer Fury of SHIELD, it's Nick, Phil's oldest friend and trusted leader, who looks so sad Clint almost looks away again.

Nick doesn't say anything at first, just looks at him with shared grief and pity and Clint is about a second away from punching him because _how dare he look at him like that_ , when Nick pulls a chain from his pocket.

Dog tags. And a gold wedding band.

“Phil was my best friend. And the best man I ever had the great privilege to know.” Nick says softly, pressing the chain into Clint's hand. Clint grips it so hard his whole arm shakes. “I am truly, genuinely sorry for your loss.”

And then he's gone. And Clint, somehow, remains, kneeling on the floor of a half-wrecked restaurant with his face pressed into Nat's neck and his whole world shattered and ground to dust.

* * *

Clint reads a lot. Nothing special, nothing particularly intelligent, just paperbacks with summaries that seem like they have interesting stories. There's a lot of downtime in his job, a lot of hurry-up-and-wait and reading is as good a way to pass the time as any.

Sometimes, in the books he reads, a protagonist will lose their lover. Usually they're miraculously saved, sometimes they're not, but always, if the protagonist's love is true and deep and stronger and more passionate than any love that has ever existed (it always is) he or she will go into a state of deep shock. Their pain is so great that their brain shuts down and they spend at least the next scene catatonic and unresponsive. They never remember, after, those horrible few hours after the death of their greatest love.

Clint remembers.

He remembers Natasha whispering to him softly, soothingly in Russian as she coaxes him to his feet. He remembers the others hovering, just out of reach, wanting to somehow give comfort to this man who fought with them, put his life on the line for them, and may as well be a stranger to them. He remembers shocked silence and poorly hidden bafflement, furtive looks that said _how could he possibly have married_ you?

He remembers every step to the pick-up point to take them to the helicarrier. He remembers every breath he takes ( _Inhale... 2... 3... 4... Hold... 2... 3... 4... Exhale... 2... 3... 4...)_ to try to keep himself from trembling apart with every step. He remembers silence and the hum of engines and rounded metal digging into his palms. He remembers Nat pressed against his side the whole way as if she, too, is trying to keep him from shattering.

He remembers the damage. He remembers exposed wires sparking, the smoking engine. He remembers rows of bodies covered in white sheets. He remembers clenched fists and averted gazes and hostile glares.

Clint has an excellent memory for detail. It's in his file.

* * *

Maria Hill is waiting for them when they land. Her eyes are shiny and her skin is noticeably blotchy even underneath the scrapes and bruises. She looks at him with deep sorrow and he wonders if that look is for Phil or himself, so obviously broken as he is. He suspects both. He focuses on her mouth so he doesn't have to meet her eyes.

“Barton, get some sleep.” She says almost immediately. “Debrief at 0900 tomorrow morning. You too, Romanoff.”

Nat nods once sharply and takes his arm to lead him down below. He doesn't even bother saying he wont be able to sleep. It's a lie, another one always told in paperbacks. He is bone tired, exhaustion sunk into every fiber of his being. He could sleep propped up on the deck next to a jet engine. He may have, if not for Natasha steering him towards the temporary quarters below the deck of the helicarrier.

“First shower's all you,” She says as soon as they walk in, as if her staying with him was never even a question. Clint, as he takes out his aids and puts them on the side table, is unspeakably grateful.

Usually he enjoys the muted quiet at the end of a long day, but his thoughts are louder without the intrusions of the outside world and the last thing he wants right now is to be alone with them. He showers rapidly, scrubbing viciously at his skin and counting his breaths to keep the memories of the past few days at bay. It works, a little, but Clint suspects that's less to do with his meditation skills and more to do with the fact that he feels numb with grief, like the enormity of it all is just too big for his brain to handle so it just doesn't.

Clint does not want to think of Loki, doesn't want to think of the sweet ease of surrender, the knowledge that everything in the world was exactly as it should be. He definitely doesn't want to think about how, as he loosed the arrow on the helicarrier's engines, he'd felt totally, perfectly, at peace.

When Clint steps out of the shower his skin is rubbed raw. Some places, angry and inflamed red, sting as he towels off.

“Finally!” Natasha says when he steps out of the bathroom, handing him his aides like she knows he doesn't want to be trapped in his own head right now. “Last time I give you the first shower. I'm pretty sure I have alien blood in my hair, who knows how long _that_ will take to wash out, or what damage it'll do in the meantime. Hey, do you think chitauri blood is poisonous or something?”

She leaves the door open a crack and chatters at him as the shower runs, only rarely pausing for breath. Clint knows precisely what she's doing, but it doesn't keep him from focusing on her voice like a lifeline. There's a pair of SHIELD-issue sweatpants and a tee shirt folded neatly on the bed that look new. He pulls them on and sits on the edge of the mattress, staring at his clasped hands and letting Nat's voice wash over him until the water shuts off and she's standing in the doorway, fully dressed and toweling her hair.

She looks at him, for a moment, a look that asks _What do you need_ and he just looks back at her, raw and open and hopeless until she nods and climbs onto the narrow bed with him. Reluctantly, he takes his aids back out

“Sleep,” she says, pulling him down with her and covering them both with the sheet. She lets him take the position closest to the door and doesn't even question it when he stops her from switching off the light.

“I can't sleep,” he whispers, voice rough, as he arranges himself so he can easily see her face.

“Liar,” she chides, stroking his hair. He can already feel exhaustion taking over, dragging him towards sleep. He's afraid of what he will dream.

“Just like Budapest,” he says, delaying the inevitable.

“Mmm. Or Karachi.”

“Or Istanbul.”

“Druzhba .”

“Vienna.”

“Cadiz .”

“Moscow.” Natasha tenses almost imperceptibly and Clint wants to kick himself.

“Not Moscow,” she says softly.

“Fuck, Nat, that's not what I meant, really. Shit, he's not even in the _ground_ yet, I'm- I'm not trying to-” Clint's throat closes and he has to stop because if he opens his mouth he's just going to fall to pieces.

“Hush, sokoljónok, I know what you meant.” Her voice wavers as she runs a hand soothingly down his arm. “Sleep.”

He tries, he really does, but--

“I just... I just can't believe he's gone.” And that's it, the damn breaks, and his breathing disintegrates into harsh, wracking sobs as he curls tighter around himself.

“I know, shhh, I know. I- I can't either. I-- I'm _so sorry,_ Clint, I'm so, so, so _sorry._ ” He can hear the tears in her voice and suddenly he feels selfish, even though he knows how she operates, because she loved Phil too, loved him dearly and there aren't many people she could say that about. One less, now.

Clint closes the distance between them and buries his face in her neck and clings to her and _weeps. S_ he clings right back, joining him in his sorrow. They stay like that, pained and broken, until all the events of the past few days catch up and drag them inexorably to sleep.

* * *

_The world is washed in blue and Clint is terrified, deep in his bones. He is walking down a corridor and he is screaming in his head to turn, to run away, but his limbs are not his own and stride keeps it's steady pace, not effected in the least by Clint's struggles._

“ _Are you married, Agent Barton?” Loki drawls, motioning to his hand, and Clint's head nods and calmly displays the glinting gold band on his left middle finger._

'No, _don't show him that,_ leave _you idiot.' Clint shouts, trapped within his own mind, useless and ineffectual._

“ _Very nice,” Loki nods, a cruel, satisfied grin playing on his lips. Clint is sure he knows, can see him fighting and helpless and hopeless as his own body betrays him. “Well, Agent, I have a new task for you.” He motions to the side and there is Phil, bruised and bloodied and tied to a chair. His eyes are wide open, lucid and pleading._ _Clint can see his lips move, but can hear no words._

“ _I want you to kill your husband for me.”_

_Clint's body doesn't even hesitate. In a blink of an eye he takes Phil's head in his hands and snaps his neck in one fluid, vicious moment. Clint wails. Loki laughs._

“ _Very good, Agent Barton. And now Agent Romanoff.”_

_Clint turns. Natasha is chained to the wall, blood caked on her face with her eyes swollen almost shut. She lifts her head to meet his eyes and whispers “Cognitive Recalibration.”_

_Suddenly Clint's body is his own again. He whirls around and dives at Loki –_

_\--_ Only to find himself pinned face down on the floor, his arm hiked so far up his back he'll dislocate it if he so much as twitches. Before he can degrade into sleep-muddled panic, however, he feels a light tapping on his arm in a familiar code. _Safe. Natasha. Safe._ It repeats until Clint's body relaxes and he stops struggling.

“I'm good,” he says eventually, and it's an obvious lie but she knows what he means. She lets him go immediately and perches on the side of the bed, watching Clint as he backs himself up against the far wall, distancing himself as much as the small space will allow.

“Fuck, Nat, I'm so sorry. I-- fuck.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Natasha signs, looking calm and unconcerned. “You had a bad dream. I was expecting it, honestly.”

“But, fuck. I could have--”

“Hurt me?” She looks faintly amused, now. “Please, Barton. I could take you in MY sleep, let alone yours. My sleep-fu is best.”

“Bullshit,” Clint shoots back, rising to the bait automatically. “My sleep-fu can kick your sleep-fu's ass.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, gazing down at his seat on the floor with his back to the wall from her lofty perch on the edge of a SHIELD-issue mattress. “Clearly.”

Clint huffs out a breath of surprised laughter and then tips his head back against the wall with a gentle thud, all traces of mirth gone as quickly as they arrived. “I'm tired of attacking the people I care about.” _I'm tired of losing control._

“I know,” says Natasha, and he knows she really does.

Clint scrubs a tired hand over his face. “What time is it?”

“A little after six. We managed a full eight hours.”

“Then why am I still so damn tired?”

“We've still got time before we have to debrief-?”

“No,” says Clint quickly, already getting up to grab his aids. “No. I'm not going to be able to get back to sleep.” He wants to go to the range, but he's out of arrows and he's pretty sure the people manning requisitions have better things to deal with then digging out arrows so he can shoot his mind into oblivion. If they'll even GIVE him any, which there's a distinct possibility they won't. Clint wouldn't blame them.

“Alright then. Breakfast.”

Clint gives her a look like she's gone insane. “If you try to make me eat right now I will end you.”

“You're welcome to try,” she retorts breezily as she tosses him a pair of uniform pants, ignoring his grumbles as he pulls them on.

* * *

The walk down to the cafeteria is horrible. Evidence of the damage he'd done with his defection is everywhere. Bullet holes riddle the walls and damaged wires still spark. There are no bodies but there is still blood on the walls, dried out and red-brown. He wonders if any of the blood stains are Phil's, if he died cleanly and quickly with a bullet to the head or if he slowly bled out, cold and alone, rescue crews unable to reach him in time with all the chaos. He wonders--

“Stop.” Natasha bumps her shoulder with his. Clint swallows back bile and tries to do as she says.

No one bothers them on their walk through the helicarrier. Clint's not exactly sure what he's expecting, but tensions are high and he... he's responsible for this. He wouldn't have been surprised to be outright attacked, although shouts of his treason seem more likely. He suspects it's more Natasha's presence that keeps them at bay. She has an intense, determined look on her face, almost daring passersby to start something. No one wants to tussle with the Black Widow when she looks like that. Or, well, _ever_ , but especially when she looks like that. Clint sticks close to her side, almost but not quite touching, and doesn't meet anyone's eyes.

Clint knows she's hurting deeply. He may have made a different call, way back when, but Phil had _fought_ for her. At the time he'd just been backing Clint's play, trusting his judgment, but that didn't change the fact that Agent Coulson had been one of the first people in the Black Widow's memory to advocate for her, and that was not a debt she would ever forget. Or pay back, now.

What Natasha needs most right now is a mission, an objective for which she can construct a mask and tuck away all the grief and pain and loss. If right now she's decided her mission is Clint, well, it wouldn't be the first time. She needs to be strong for him to be strong for herself, he knows. He thinks he should protest but right now, with the grief so fresh, he feels like he needs all the strength he can get just to draw a breath. He's not going to waste it.

Clint has no plans to consume anything besides a cup of coffee or seven, but when they enter the cafeteria Nat shoves a tray in his hand and begins loading it up, blithely ignoring his protests. It's not until they sit down and he looks over his mountain of food (seriously he wouldn't be able to eat this much on a _good_ day let alone...now) that he see's she hasn't taken anything besides a banana and a heaping spoonful of peanut butter for her breakfast. He gives he a look like _Seriously? What the fuck?_ And she shoots back a challenging _What are you going to do about it_ which makes him just sigh and begin artfully arranging the food on his plate.

Ten minutes later, finished her banana and apparently bored watching Clint not-eat she reaches out and swipes a few tater tots from his plate. It's a testament to their relationship that she still has use of her hand. Clint glowers at her. He has a thing about people stealing his food and the fact that he wasn't eating it and didn't even want what was on his plate to begin with is completely irrelevant. Nat, the thieving wench, just quirks an eyebrow at him and reaches for a sausage link. He grabs it right from under her fingers and shoves it in his mouth, chewing pointedly.

What follows is an utterly childish and ridiculous game of keep-away, and it's not until the food is nearly gone that it dawns on Clint what she's doing.

“Using a man's childhood hunger against him,” he tsks mock-disapprovingly. “Low blow.”

Nat merely shrugs and smiles at him. “You needed to eat.”

“I'm a grown man. I can feed myself.”

“Uh-huh. I _totally_ believe you.”

Clint just rolls his eyes and gathers his tray to leave. He really has no idea what he'd do without her.

Then again, he'd always said the same thing about Phil.

* * *

Hill quirks an eyebrow at them when they enter her office together but doesn't otherwise say anything. SOP after an op like this would have them debrief separately but she'd been vague about the meeting time the day before and had clearly decided she had better things to do than argue with them about it. Besides, with things so fucked up it was probably better to save the time.

“All right Hawkeye, let's start with you. Report.” Hill had always been the type to rip the bandaid off quickly.

Clint tries to put himself in the headspace of clinically relaying facts as if they had happened to someone else, but it doesn't work very well. That's never how he debriefs – he almost always does it with Phil when an op descends into this kind of chaotic primordial nightmare soup, and he lets him sign it if he wants. Clint's hands have always been more reliable than his voice, turning shaky words and emotions into something physical and solid. He's also an irrepressible smartass, much to Phil's consternation. Well, Phil pretends to disapprove, but he's always been the type to admonish his professionalism with the right side of his mouth while making bone-dry remarks that only encouraged Clint with the left.

Had been. Agent Coulson wouldn't be leading any more debriefings, and Hill doesn't know ASL.

Nevertheless, Clint finds himself automatically falling into sign whenever the words get stuck in his throat or he needs to pause to keep from from breaking down embarrassingly in the Deputy Director's office. Natasha translates automatically so he doesn't have to repeat himself and eventually he just gives up and signs the rest, Natasha's low, smoky alto calm and grounding the whole way through.

By the time Clint is finished recounting the worst forty-eight hours of his life, he's staring unblinkingly just to the left of Hill's head, his hands clenched white-knuckled in his lap. At her prompting, Clint had recounted in excruciating detail the effects of the spear as he'd experienced them. Some part of his brain is imagining he can see blue at the edges of his vision, and he swallows convulsively a few times and tries to blink it away.

Next, it's Natasha's turn. Listening to her detail the last hours of his husband's life is no better, but he forces himself to listen to every word, head turned to watch her lips and make sure he doesn't miss anything. He needs to know with a ferocity and obsession he doesn't quite understand. He's trembling by the time Natasha gets to the part with his “cognitive recalibration.” _Maybe if she hadn't had to worry about me she could have saved him,_ is his first thought, followed by _If she hadn't been there I might have killed him myself._ He closes his eyes and puts his head in his hands.

“Agent Barton?” Hill's voice is uncharacteristically gentle.

“Keep going.” His voice sounds rough and raspy in his ears.

There's not much, after that, that he doesn't already know at least in general terms. As Nat talks through the battle he manages to pull himself together a little. Those memories are sweet in comparison; the steady pull and release of his bow in his hands, the feeling of being eyes on high, of being precisely where he belongs all without the terrible film of blue.

“All right,” Hill begins when Natasha wraps up her report and Clint can look her in the eye again. “To begin with: Agent Barton, as of right now you are on mandatory psychological leave for the next six months minimum--”

“Six _months?!_ That's _insane--”_

“ _\--_ reinstatement to field work pending clearance by psych,” she continues as if she hadn't heard him. “Possible light desk work and training assignments after three months, pending clearance by psych, and--” she reaches into her desk drawer and pulls out a smallish black box, “you are officially on suicide watch, effective immediately.”

“Pending clearance by psych?”

“Got it in one.”

“This is _bullshit!”_ Clint roars, slamming his fists on the table and leaping to his feet. Nat and Hill don't even blink; it takes more than a grown man's temper tantrum to phase them.

“ _Sit down,_ Agent Barton. Nothing about this is bullshit and you know it. Your exposure to the spear alone, an artifact of unknown source with even more unknown power would net you three months of observation _at least_. SOP for losing a fellow team member is up to six weeks leave and a mandatory psych eval, and I know I don't have to tell you that the fact that you've worked together for nearly a decade and that you were _married_ increases the necessity. Barton,” her eyes soften and Clint is again filled with the irrational urge to hit something. “Clint. You're important to SHEILD.”

“You have other snipers,” he snaps.

“Not just as an asset, although we don't have anyone with nearly your skill. Look.” She leans forward, looking Clint straight in the eyes. “Phil was a good friend of mine and Director Fury, and he was very important to a lot of people here. So are you, and not just as his spouse. We are going to do everything in our power to take care of you.”

“Even tag me like some sort of prisoner? Why not just lock me up?” _I probably deserve it._

“Don't be melodramatic. All it does is monitor your vital signs and let us keep track of where you are.”

“And keep me from wandering too far.”

“If you're alone there will be restriction on your movements, yes, but only then, and it comes off as soon as psych gives the go-ahead.”

Clint, having ignored Hill's order to sit down, starts pacing agitatedly. “No, no this is completely fucking _absurd--”_

“Clint.” Natasha this time, her voice low and pleading. “Please.”

He turns to look at her. “You really think I'm gonna off myself, Nat?”

“I think love makes people stupid,” Natasha says bluntly. “And you love him very much.”

Clint slumps a little at her refusal to use the past tense. “Tasha...”

“Please,” she says again. “It would make me breath a little easier.”

“You're manipulating me.”

“Yes.”

Clint lets out an explosive sigh and throws himself back into his chair. “Fine,” he growls and Nat does indeed seem to be breathing a little easier. Hill hands him the box and he slips the little bracelet around his wrist. It makes a whirring sound as it activates.

“What now?”

Crisis apparently averted, Hill is back to all business. “The carrier will be in dry dock in New York for repairs for at least the next month or two. For now you'll be stationed in SHIELD's New York base where you will do whatever psych tells you to do. You may be transferred after things settle down, depending on your psych eval. You'll have supervised range access only, and will be authorized to leave the premises only in the company of another agent while you are on suicide watch. Otherwise, you're free to do what you like.”

“Yeah, because nothing says freedom like a mandatory surveillance bracelet and watchdog every time I want to get some sun.”

Hill gives him a sympathetic look but otherwise says nothing before looking at Natasha.

“You are also on leave. Three months at least, also pending psych eval. Are you going to fight me about it too?” No mention of a bracelet, but Clint wasn't really expecting one; she'd always been stronger than him.

“I'll be staying with Barton while on leave.”

“I figured as much. Anything else?”

“No.”

“Isn't this enough?” Clint snaps.

Hill looks at Clint grimly. “We'll see.”

* * *

Clint feels like a raw, open wound, with all his emotions on display. Nat is still with him, but it's somehow less of a comfort than it was before. He aches for a bow in his hands, or even just some weights, but the helicarrier is still doing its best impression of a kicked anthill and none of the training facilities will be open. He goes back to counting his breaths on the walk down, but it doesn't calm him as much as he wishes it would.

They get to the door in his room and Clint pauses in front of it. “Nat,” he says softly. “I-- I need some time...”

Natasha nods and takes his face in her hands, kissing him softly on the forehead. “I'll come back to check on you later. Call me if you need me.”

“Of course.”

Alone in the room, he sits on the edge of the bed and pulls out Phil's tags from underneath his shirt. He fingers the gold band, twin to his own, and feels his vision go blurry. He doesn't even try to stop the tears as he gradually falls to pieces in solitude.

“ _Phil._ ”


	2. Illuminate the Nos on their Vacancy Signs

“You're fucking with me.”

“I assure you Agent Barton, I am deadly serious.”

“This,” Clint's voice is shaking with barely controlled rage. “Is not acceptable, Nick. I want hi– his body released _today_.” He swallows, takes a second to make sure his voice is under control. “I have funeral arrangements to make.”

Fury's expression is stone cold intimidation, his voice laced with light threat. “That is not your call to make, Agent. SHEILD is making the arrangements.”

Clint gapes at him, at the _audacity_. “ _Fuck you_ that is not my call to make! We were _married_ for god's sake.” His voice breaks on the last word and he feels his eyes start to fill, but he is so past caring at this point. “Just let me bury my husband. Please.”

Fury stares him down for a moment, like he can make Clint cower out of his office with the force of his one-eyed glare and save himself from having this conversation. Clint stares right back. He's been an agent of SHIELD for over ten years; it takes a lot more than a stern look to get him to back down. Fury seems to realize this after a beat and relents, leaning back against his chair and scrubbing a hand across his eyes in a show of open weariness. Clint's been an agent of SHIELD almost ten years; He's still not certain he's ever seen Nick Fury express a genuine emotion.

Fury takes a deep breath. “Barton, do you know what exposure to the massive amount of freaky-ass energy radiating out of that goddamn spear does to a human body?”

“No.”

“ _Neither do we._ We know it emits gamma radiation with a signature that matches nothing else on this planet. We know it has powers that range from the delicacy required to perfectly rewrite someone's mind to enough raw energy to flip an SUV in the middle of a crowded street. We don't know what kind of traces it leaves, we don't know what effects those traces may have on the surrounding environment. We don't know how to shield the damn thing, we don't know if it renews it's energy or can be drained like a battery, we don't know where it came from, we don't know how it was made, or when. I could write a _book_ about what we don't know, Barton, and until that book gets shorter I'm not willing to risk the safety and health of the general public because one of my agents is sentimental.”

Clint gapes at him. “ _Sentimental_? Jesus Christ, Fury, you are such an unbelievable goddamn bastard. He was your _friend_ and you're just gonna let the fucking squints cut him up and run their little _tests--_ ”

“Yes,” Fury cuts in, his voice low and dangerous. “He was my friend, and as my friend I know he would want to do anything he could to protect the people of this planet, even after his death. _Especially_ after his death. You _know_ that, Clint.” His voice softens and his body language relaxes to something that is less threat and more entreaty. “Under any other circumstances I wouldn't do this to you, but I need you to trust the system on this one.”

Clint looks Fury straight in the eye. He doesn't know who the man thinks he's fooling; he's best friends with the Black Widow.

“I know those were the magic words that made my husband hop to like a good little soldier, but you should know that the only people or things I have _ever_ trusted are Phil, Nat, and my own two eyes.”

They stare at each other for a moment, Clint's fists white-knuckled on his thighs and Fury's one good eye narrow and searching.

“Noted.” Fury clips out finally. “You are dismissed, Specialist.”

* * *

Clint bursts into the room with the half-formed notion of packing angrily and getting the _fuck_ off this boat. Natasha is there already, lying back on the bed and reading something off a tablet. His bow case, uniform, and the pair of sweats Natasha liberated the night after the battle are laid out neatly by the door. The reminder that he doesn't have anything _to_ pack, that most of his stuff was destroyed in New Mexico and the rest is in the apartment that he'll never again share with Phil drains his anger instantly, leaving him cold and empty.

“What happened?” Natasha asks, concerned. Clint sits heavily down next to her as she sits up and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“They wont release Phil's body,” he says quietly. “They want to run tests. Because of the spear.”

“Jesus,” she breathes. “Can you talk to Fury about it?”

Clint can feel his face twisting, anger rising right back up as if it had never gone. “Who do you think I was just talking to? Fucking _asshole._ ”

Natasha says nothing, just strokes a hand soothingly up and down Clint's back. Clint is restless; he rubs his hands together, cards his fingers through his hair until it stands up on end and rubs his eyes with the heals of his palms. He really just wants to hit something, but he wont be able to get to a gym until they get to the base and he's way too old to start swinging at random objects every time he gets a little upset.

“You agree with him,” he says after a while, without quite meaning to.

Natasha hesitates, her hand stilling. “I think he has his reasons.”

“And you think they're good reasons? Good enough for this?”

“For what, Clint?”she shoots back tensely. “For keeping you from putting a body in a box--?”

“Oh, wow, _fuck_ you, Nat--”

“--I know people think their little rituals help but _you_ know better!” Natasha jumps gracefully to her feet and pivots neatly to face him. “He is _gone_ , sokol, _gone,_ and there aren't any pretty words or any flowers you can place on his _corpse_ that will make that okay!”

“You think I don't _know_ that?” Clint is shouting. He doesn't care. “You think I don't know that it wont- that it will _never_ be okay? Trust me, Nat, I know that more than anyone. But experimenting on him? Putting him on a slab and running tests and--” he stops, trying to get himself under control, and signs the rest in shaky hands. “I don't want that for him. Call me sentimental, but the thought of it makes me sick.”

Natasha signs back, her expression tight. “Nick wouldn't do this without a damn good reason.”

“Yeah? Well if it's such a good goddamn reason, why hasn't he told us?” Clint challenges.

Natasha just shrugs like, _it's not my job to ask._

Clint stares at her for a long minute. “Do you really trust him that much?”

Natasha steps back to lean against the wall, a deliberately casual motion meant to put some distance between them. Her arms are wrapped tightly around her chest and she's staring off to the side.

“With the little things? Things like emotions and individual agendas and personal comfort? No, I don't. But for the big things? The long game, the good of the whole world ten, fifty, one hundred years into the future? Yea, Clint. I do.”

“'Trust the system,'” Clint quotes tiredly

“Maybe you should try it.”

Clint shoots her a disbelieving look, motioning to his ears. “Yeah, because that's worked out _so_ well for me in the past.”

“That's different and you know it.”

Clint can't quite keep himself from snapping. “How? How is it different? SHIELD's a government organization. How can I trust in a government that can't even protect it's children? How am I supposed to trust that SHIELD is any more competent than Child Protective Services? Because they have more money? Because they're dealing with terrorists out in fucking third world countries instead of the ones with skin like ours who terrorize us in our own homes? How? Tell me, Nat, because you seem so _fucking_ certain and I could _really_ do with some fucking certainty right about now!”

Nat's face is terribly blank and her body language is stiff and unyielding. She pauses before saying, “If I can't trust SHIELD to do the right thing, what hope do I have?”

Just like that, Clint feels his anger pop like a balloon, leaving him feeling stretched out and tired. He sighs heavily and reaches a hand out to her, but she doesn't move.

“Nat.” No response. “Natoshka. Come here, milaya.” She still doesn't look at him but she slowly pushes herself away from the wall and takes his hand. He pulls her onto his lap and wraps his arms around her, resting his head on her shoulder.

“I'm sorry,” he says. It's an old argument between them and now was not the time to bring it up.

“It's done,” she says simply, the way she always does after an apology, but she relaxes into his embrace.

“You don't need them.” This is part of their argument too, but it needs to be said.

“That's not what you said when you brought me in,” she retorts, quietly amused.

Clint pulls bravado like a mask across his face. It's more difficult than normal. “It's different now. You're a superhero. You've outgrown them.”

She pulls a face and gives him that look that's just for him. The one that says _You are such an unbelievable idiot and I cannot believe I willingly associate with you._ “I am not a superhero, don't be absurd.”

“Nat, you helped defeat an _alien invasion_ from _another dimension._ You are so a superhero.”

“Screw you, Barton, so did you.”

Clint sobers. “I am not a hero, super or otherwise.”

“Nu-uh, doesn't work like that Hawkeye. If I'm a superhero then you're a superhero.”

Clint wants to protest, to say something like _let's ask the families of the agents I got killed whether or not I'm a superhero._ But she's smiling again and the thought of arguing with her makes him feel scraped out and tired, so he sticks with sarcasm instead “Oh, well, if _you_ say it, I guess it must be true.”

He can tell she sees right through him, but she just grins and cuffs him lightly on the shoulder. “Knew you'd figure it out eventually.” She steps out of his embrace and stretches like an idle cat. “Get your shit, Barton, we've got better places to be.”

* * *

 Moving doesn't take long. The helicarrier is in dry dock, so they don't even have to take a chopper to get off it (although if Clint is being honest he would have appreciated the excuse to fly, even if only for a short distance. Who knows how long he's gonna be grounded). Their driver moves quickly and competently through the New York streets on the way to base. Clint had briefly considered protesting being shuttled around like a child, but Nat had shot him a look like _so help me if you make a scene right now I will knock you unconscious and stuff you in the trunk,_ so he figured discretion was the better part of not getting another concussion and shut his mouth.

The battle itself was well contained to the few blocks in midtown, but even far away from the destruction its effects are clearly visible. Flags are hung in front of just about every house, the streets are emptier than normal and folks who do need to be out and about seem to prefer to stick together in close groups. Clint's not sure if it's for safety or if the close brush with the end has people seeking out company with their fellow humans. He suspects both.

The New York base is in a state of controlled chaos. People shout news as they continue walking rapidly to wherever they're needed, nearly everyone has some sort of file in their hand and many are talking on coms as they stride purposefully to one destination or another. Clint shuts off his aids almost as soon as they walk in the door. SHIELD hearing aids are light-years ahead of most, but picking out anything useful in the din would still be a rather pathetic exercise in futility. It's not as if they're here on a mission, the headache is really not worth it.

Base living quarters are located far from the situation rooms and offices that are the heart of SHIELD operations, which Clint appreciates, and underground, which Clint doesn't. Their rooms are two of the larger ones with their own bathrooms and kitchenettes and are located right next to each other. He turns to Nat with a raised eyebrow.

She smirks back at him. “Hey, if I have to be a superhero, I can at least get some of the perks, huh?”

Clint switches his aids back on. “What _are_ the perks of being a superhero, anyway?”

“I figured I'd make them up as I go along,” she says as she walks into the first room. “See how far I can milk it for before people call me on my shit.”

“People never call you on your shit,” Clint chuckles as he follows her in. “Except Fury.” _Or Phil_ , he thinks, and swallows.

“What about you?”

Clint lets a look of incredulity take over his face, determinedly beating back a fresh wave of grief. “Are you kidding? You have me wrapped around your little finger.”

She flashes him a sunny smile and pats his cheek. “It's good you recognize that. Now get out and get dressed for the range.”

Clint smiles gratefully at her and gives her a cocky salute “Yes, ma'am!”

* * *

 Time in the range turns to time on the track turns to sparring. Natasha puts him through his paces, saying that a few days off have made him soft, that she'll kick his ass if he slacks like this again. Clint takes the challenge for what it is and brings her to the mat five times out of nine, asking her who's gone soft now.

He feels loose and worn out and his muscles ache. It's a clean, familiar fatigue that almost (almost) keeps him from thinking too much.

They go into Natasha's completely identical room, just for variety. Clint throws himself down on the bed and turns on the TV; apparently superhero perks include HBO, which Clint is definitely not complaining about.

“What do you want to watch?”

“Whatever,” she calls over her shoulder, retrieving her phone and curling up at her end of the couch. “But if you put on a chick flick I will not be responsible for my actions.”

“Hater. Mean Girls is a gift to our time.”

“Mean Girls is not a chick flick.”

“You can't deny something is a chick flick just because you like it.”

“Watch me,” she drawls, scrolling through her phone. “Oh,” she sounds suddenly soft, and Clint turns to look at her.

“Oh?”

“Have you checked your email yet?” She asks, the sudden solemnity in jarring contrast to her earlier levity.

“Mandatory psych leave means never having to check your email,” Clint says flippantly, but even he can tell it sounds forced.

Nat leans over and hands him her tablet, showing him the email that was probably cc'd to him. Clint reads it through, chest tight, and feels all the good done by the day's grueling workout flake away.

“Fuck,” he says. He can feel his breath coming faster, sees flashes of blue out the corner of his eyes. He puts the tablet down and curls up, hiding his face in his knees and wrapping his arms around his legs. _Like a child_ , he thinks. _How pathetic._ He can't make himself uncurl, though. All he can really do is try to hold on as Tasha strokes his back and try not to let his mind replay the feeling of being someone under someone's control, of their will becoming his own, and _liking_ it.

“I don't want to see him again, Nat,” he whispers shakily.

“It's public,” she reminds him softly. “Cameras and reporters and a whole lot of people who want to be reassured that he's really gone.”

He lifts his head to shoot her a look like _what the fuck is wrong with you._ “Is that supposed to make me want to go?”

“If you don't, there will be questions,” she says implacably. “Doubts. People will wonder, talk it to death for months, if all the avengers but one show up.”

“Oh yea? And what will they talk about if one of the Avengers breaks down on national television?”

“You wont break down,” she says, like she believes it down to the marrow of her bones.

“You remind me of Miss Adie, the fortune teller from the circus. She was also full of shit.”

“I mean it, Clint. You're not going to break down, because there's no need. You won.”

For a moment Clint cannot breath for the tide of emotion that rushes through his blood. It is rage and it is incredulity and it is tearing, screaming loss. “There is _nothing_ about what has happened that can be called _winning.”_ he spits, and nearly chokes on the words.

“Yes there is,” she says calmly, looking him dead in the eye. “You are alive, and free. The world is safe, barely damaged at all in the grand scheme of things. He is _nothing_ to you now, Clint. Do you understand? _Nothing._ He's being shipped off to Mommy and Daddy with his tail between his legs and _you_ are the one who put him there. He has _lost_. You have _won_. You will not break.” Her voice cuts him with its unwavering certainty, as if all the world will bend to her will simply because she formed the words. Clint wants so badly to believe it, to believe _her,_ like he always does _._ He buries his face in his hands.

“That's – I want to believe that, I really do --”

“Then believe it.”

“It's not that simple, Tasha, you don't understand--”

“Don't you dare tell me what I understand!” She shouts. Clint looks at her, shocked, and she looks just as surprised at her own outburst. Surprised and unsettled, as only unconscious displays of emotion can make her.

“Nat?” he asks softly, after a few beats of silence.

She just sits for a moment, head bowed, visibly collecting herself. She takes a deep breath, then:

“You don't need me to tell you how I feel,” she begins, “about you. And Phil.”

“No,” Clint says softly. “No I do not.”

“He took you,” she whispers. “He took you and I didn't think I could ever get you back. I thought – I was useless and ineffectual and there was nothing I could do, no words I could say no trick I could pull that I thought had a hope of snapping you out of it.” her voice is low, eyes haunted. “It was just luck, you know, that you hit your head like that. I didn't think that would do it, that it could ever be so simple.”

“Lucky I guess,” he says roughly, not feeling very lucky.

She reaches out to squeeze his hand but doesn't otherwise respond. “I couldn't stop thinking about what he said. I can't stop thinking about it. He's like me, in a way,” her mouth quirks into a humorless shadow of a grin, “We both know how to hit were it hurts.”

“I'm sorry,” he says desperately. Loki wouldn't have known where to hit if Clint hadn't told him.

Natasha shakes her head. “You have _nothing_ to be sorry for. Nothing at all, do you hear me? Nothing.” He can tell she believes it, and he knows she's right but he can't... quite accept it. Not really.

She obviously sees that, but she lets it go for now. “You should have seen him, when I spoke to him. So sure in himself, in his victory. He got to me, got to _us_ , but we saved the world anyway. _We_ did that. In a few months we'll be back to making the world better, we'll take out some more evil motherfuckers, and he'll be barely more than a bad dream.”

“How can you say that?” Clint bursts out. “How can you say that when _he killed Phil?_ ” He can feel the itch of incoming tears and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes furiously. “Phil is _dead._ That's a fuck of a lot more than a bad dream!”

“And in the end we will remember Phil and think of Loki not at all,” Natasha says. “We will mourn, and we will miss him, and his loss will hurt us, and Loki will be rotting forgotten in an Asgardian cell with no one to miss him or give enough of a shit about him to piss on him if he's on fire. _That's_ our victory, Clint. He wants nothing more than to rule, nothing more than the power and notoriety and attention, and he will be forgotten in favor of a bland government Agent with an absurd collection of designer suits.” Her eyes are shining with unshed tears now, though her voice is steady.

Clint swallows once. Twice. Clears his throat.

“Phil was never bland,” he says calmly, and doesn't manage to catch the sob before it escapes his throat.

A tear rolls down Natasha's face, but she smiles. “No, he wasn't. Can you believe people in this place actually thought that?”

“Fucking idiots. Thought SHIELD hired smarter people than that.”

“They hired _you,_ didn't they?”

Clint summons a small smile for her, barely more than a press of lips. “Fuck you.”

Natasha gives him a watery smile in return and goes back to stroking his back until he slowly unwinds from his defensive curl. Clint thinks about how the three of them, him and Phil and Nat, would sit together like this after a hard op and glue each other back together. It's harder to do with only two.

“He's still in your head,” he says after a while, and she nods.

“Yes. But,” she looks up at him, baring her teeth in an expression too savage to be a smile. “People have gotten into my head before. They will again. But _I_ control what I do with that. He has no power over me.”

Clint takes a deep breath and nods, taking in her words and trying to accept them as truth. Loki is going to a box and Clint will continue to breath free air. For now, that will have to be enough.

When he puts on the movie Labyrinth, Nat punches him hard in the shoulder and smirking back at her takes barely any effort at all.

* * *

“Alright, what's the plan?” Clint asks Sitwell. They're gathered in one of the endless conference rooms that populate a government building like this. Clint is sitting cross-legged on the ridiculously large and hefty boardroom table because impertinence amuses him and he's damned short on amusement lately.

“Loki will be transported from the Helicarrier along with his brother in an armored caravan. Stark and Rogers will be meeting us there, as they have their own transport. Dr. Banner will be joining us in a moment, though he's informed me that he'll be leaving with Stark.”

“He's here at base? How did we not know about that?” Clint asks, surprised

Sitwell raises an eyebrow. “Because you didn't ask?” Clint rolls his eyes.

“What's he been doing here?” asks Natasha.

“Consulting on the spear,” says Sitwell, and Clint tenses involuntarily. “He wanted to take a lead on the project but he's unwilling to work for SHIELD, and SHIELD is unwilling to give it to Stark, so he's doing some final measurements and making some suggestions for further study before we move it.” Clint can hear deliberately bland spook-speak when he hears it, having employed it himself and having been married to the king of deliberately bland spooks. He wonders how _that_ conversation went down, and if there's video of it anywhere.

At that moment the door opens and Dr. Banner enters, a smallish duffel bag thrown over his shoulder. Clint hasn't actually interacted with him at all besides shwarma and that-- well. Clint swallows and looks down. That's not a thing Clint would like to remember.

Natasha walks right up to him and shakes his hand warmly, looking him straight in the eye. He recalls her account of the – of _his –_ raid on the helicarrier and he sees this display of conspicuous fearlessness for what it is. Clint, who is not precisely sure how to act around a person for whom his main interaction was watching him cry on the floor of a public restaurant, follows her lead.

“Dr. Banner,” He says somewhat stiffly, shaking his hand.

“Agent Barton,” Banner replies, looking like he has something he wants to say, but doesn't know quite how to say it. His gaze flits over his shoulder to where Sitwell is standing and he visibly decides to let it go. “Looks like you've been waiting on me. Shall we be off?”

* * *

Clint grows more and more tense the closer they get to central park, his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel (he had absolutely refused to be driven this time, dismissing the agent at once and studiously ignoring Natasha's obvious disapproval). Nat rubs steady circles on his shoulder but he can feel her hand shaking slightly.

They're the last of the Avengers to arrive, before Thor and his brother in the SHIELD caravan. Clint stands stiffly, back ramrod straight and hands shoved deeply in his pockets. He's wearing dark sunglasses, nearly opaque, as more of a mask than anything else. Every wall he can throw up and hide behind is firmly in place. Natasha's the only one who'll come near him, outwardly relaxed and steady by his side.

“Brucie!” Stark calls out, striding over to the car and slinging an arm around the scientist. “I knew you'd return to me, the lure of science is just too great. Oh hey, spy twins! How are you two crazy kids doing?” he doesn't give them time to answer before drawing Banner away, chattering cheerfully while Bruce grins.

By accident or design, they don't have long to socialize before the caravan rolls up, driving slowly through the blockade. People are yelling and shouting behind barriers and Clint can see choppers in the distance, circling around the scene but never quite flying over it.

When Loki steps out of the van with his brother, Clint's vision tunnels and he locks his knees, worried he's going to pass out. This man... this _monster_ took _everything_ from him. He takes a few deep breaths and tries to keep himself under control. He can see Natasha looking at him out of the corner of her eye but she keeps her distance, not wanting to draw attention to him in front of the Avengers and the whole world. Clint is thankful for the sunglasses.

Loki is wearing some kind of gag, doubtlessly to keep him from pouring poison in their ears, and stands calmly, if a little sullenly, as he waits for Thor to gather the device that will take them home. Clint watches as he takes in his surroundings idly, as if he doesn't quite hold any attachment to the things he sees. When his gaze rests upon Clint for a moment he tenses, preparing himself for a knowing look, or an obscene gesture. A parting shot before he's taken away to be imprisoned by his family.

Loki's eyes flick disinterestedly away.

Clint clenches his fists inside his jacket pockets. _Nothing._ No acknowledgment, no flicker of recognition, not even a pause when he looked at him. He might as well have been a fucking _tree_ for all the reaction he gave. This _creature_ took _everything_ from Clint and he doesn't even care. Not a blip on his radar.

As the tessaract is put in the weird... container... thing Natasha leans over and whispers “Hundred bucks says Stark and Banner announce their engagement in the next six months.” Clint deliberately forces himself to relax and smiles. Because yeah, Stark and Banner are acting a little like puppies in love, but also because he recalls Nat's earlier speech and realizes that two can play at this game. Loki may have better things to think about than Clint, but Clint has better things to _do_ than rot away in an Asguardian prison, so he can go fuck himself.

“Heimdal, when you're ready,” Thor says, and there's a flash of blue that makes Clint's breath catch in his throat and then they're gone. _He_ 's gone.

Natasha goes to get Bruce's stuff out of the car and Clint walks to the driver's side door and waits. The rest of the Avengers are all saying their goodbyes, small parting conversations and promises to keep in touch, but Clint just can't, right now. He's wound up tighter than a spring and he doesn't want to talk, or socialize, or make vague insincere noises about maintaining this fragile, tenuous connection between them. It's too much.

The others seem to pick up on his desire for isolation fairly quickly and, surprisingly, don't seem to resent him for it. Stark and Banner wave jauntily from Stark's absurdly expensive car, and Rogers gives a friendly nod and says “Clint,” on his way to his motorcycle and just like that, sooner than expected, they're on the road.

Natasha doesn't say anything on the ride back, doesn't comment on his driving (which is toeing the line of recklessness), just blasts music and sits as a warm, reassuring presence at his side.

* * *

Clint sees them all again a week later. At Phil's funeral.

Attendance is small, but significant. Phil had always been amused by his reputation as a mild-mannered G-man, said that being viewed as insignificant always made it easier to quietly do his job in the background. He'd always gotten a kick out of the look on people's faces when they realized they'd been so thoroughly outmaneuvered by a man they'd dismissed as a glorified accountant. As a result there were only a handful of people who knew him well enough to attend his funeral, but those that did felt his loss keenly. They respected him, trusted him, and looked up to him, even if they hardly know anything about him; most of them have no idea he was married.

Clint enters the funeral parlor, takes one look at the empty coffin framed by flowers and pictures of Phil and the mass of people he does not know and does not want to talk to, and backs himself into a secluded corner and does his best to radiate his complete lack of a desire to speak to _anyone._ He wishes desperately for something to occupy his hands, for something to _do_ other than stand around and drown in the grief he feels pushing to the front of his mind. Some people are crying, already, and he feels their misery tug at his own, trying to draw it out so it can choke him. He forces himself to slow his breathing but he feels as though he's gasping for air.

The upside, he supposes, to no one knowing he and Phil are – were – _are_ married is that no one feels the need to come up to him and bury him in their condolences and offerings of shared grief. Honestly Clint would not have come at all, but not showing up to Phil's funeral feels like a betrayal, and he's betrayed Phil enough.

“Clint,” says a soft, sad voice to his side, and Clint looks over to see Audrey.

“Heya kiddo,” he whispers, voice unsteady, and draws her close. “How you doin'?”

“Not so good, Clint,” she whispers. “Not so good.”

“Yeah,” he says thickly. “Yeah, me neither.” Her shoulders start to shake and he squeezes her tightly to him, burying his face in her hair and trying to keep his own breathing steady.

They'd had an agreement about women, he and Phil, but Audrey was the only one who stuck. Sweet, pretty Audrey with a wicked sense of humor and more musical talent in her little finger than in Clint and Phil combined. Phil had adored her on sight but Clint had taken a little more convincing, though it hadn't taken long for him to come around. It was strange, this thing they'd had, but it had worked.

“How long are you back in New York?” he asks after a bit, thinking _I just saw her a few weeks ago,_ right before she moved back to Portland _._ Right before PEGASUS.It seems like a lifetime ago, the three of them tangled in bed together, the warm rush of contentment as they lay back and listened to her play. Impossible happiness. Impossible that he could ever be that happy.

“Leaving tomorrow,” she mumbles into his shoulder. “Just flew in for the... for this.” She sobs through a fresh wave of tears and he strokes her back and tries to make soothing noises.

“That's a lot of money on plane tickets,” Clint says, concerned, and she shakes her head.

“SHIELD is paying for it. They offered.” Clint hums softly with approval. Nice to know Nick Fury can pretend to have a soul every once and a while.

“Good. Good. Thats... Good.” He mumbles inarticulately and pulls out of their embrace. Belatedly, he realizes how strange they must look. Most of the people here have probably at least heard about “the cellist”, as her and Phil's relationship isn't mired in the same levels of secrecy Phil and Clint's was by necessity. Phil had spoken of her mostly to keep people from asking tiresome questions, and they would certainly be asking questions now.

She lets him pull away a little, but keeps a tight grip on his arms. “No.” she says.

“But--” Clint starts looking around the room pointedly.

“I don't care,” she says fiercely, and puts a hand on his face. Clint puts his hand over it. “I don't care, they can ask all the fucking questions they want. It doesn't matter anymore.”

Clint closes his eyes and turns into her touch. His chest feels squeezed tight and he feels his breath hitch. “It's my fault,” he whispers.

“Oh, Clint,” she says and brings her other hand up to cup his face between both palms. Her thumbs wipe at tears he hadn't noticed were spilling down his face. Her own cheeks are wet. “That's not true.”

“You don't – you don't know that. It is. It is, it's my fault he's dead and --”

“Shhhh, sweetheart. Yes, I do and no, it's not.” she strokes his face gently and he looks at her, resting his hands at her waist and neck. “Listen to me. I've known you two a very long time. I might not know everything, but I know you were constantly pulling each other out of the fire, risking everything to bring each other home. If there was _any_ way you could have pulled him out of this one, you would have. I know you would have. Okay? It was _not your fault._ ”

Clint kisses her then, because she's so beautiful when she's fierce and protective like this, because he doesn't want to argue with her, because she knows more than anyone else what he and Phil had and had shared it with them. And because he loves her but they had both been here for Phil and this is probably goodbye.

She presses in close and kisses him firmly and sweetly, their tears mixing together and yeah. This feels like goodbye. Maybe not for forever, but for a long while. When she pulls away he can tell she feels it to.

“I'm gonna go get set up,” She says, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze. He squeezed back and summons a small, watery smile for her. “You take care, Clint.”

“Yea. You too, kiddo.”

He watches her walk away and forces himself to take deep breaths, piecing back the remains of his composure. He's losing it, he can feel himself losing it, being stuck in this room full of pictures of Phil and the air thick with misery. _Why do people_ do _this,_ he thinks desperately to himself. _How does this help anyone, I feel like I'm drowning._ He counts his breaths, trying to still his mind. It would work better with a bow in his hand, or at the very least a rifle, but he's pretty sure they frown upon high-powered weapons at funeral services. He's about to rejoin Nat, figuring she has the best chance of keeping him from going insane, when someone else intersects his path.

“Mel. Long time no see”

“Hello, Clint.”

Melinda May is one of Phil's closest friends and, in the way of married couples, pretty close to Clint as well. It's been a while since he last saw her, but he knows about the mission that earned her the name The Cavalry and now that he sees her, he understands why Phil had talked at such great length about his concern for her.

She's thin, too thin, and her eyes are shadowed and distant. Dry, though, and looking at her Clint thinks he understands for the first time how the lack of tears can be more of a sign of trouble than the presence of them.

“How are you holding up?” He asks when she doesn't say anything. She huffs out a sound that might, in another world, have been considered a laugh.

“Shouldn't I be asking you that?” she says sardonically, voice devoid of the color it had held when he last spoke with her. Clint shrugs one shoulder and looks away.

“Never thought you for the type to ask questions you already know the answers to.” he says, and she nods.

With that they seem to have exhausted all conversation and silence descends. He finds himself wanting to reach out to her, to be a friend during a time where she has lost hers, but he doesn't know how to offer that in a way she would accept. He's not really sure if he even _has_ anything to offer, right now.

The moment passes. May nods at him and walks away without another word and Clint watchers her leave with a niggling feeling of an opportunity lost. He ducks his head and has just enough time to wonder how the fuck he's going to get through the rest of this excruciating fucking day when the Avengers arrive.

People are visibly shocked at their presence. It fucks with the perception of Phil Coulson as bland paper pusher in a way that even Nick Fury's presence hasn't managed to do. Clint wonders, not for the first time, how anyone had ever bought into that perception in the first place. He is struck by the sudden realization that he'll never again see the wide-eyed shock on some oblivious baby agent's face after Agent Coulson unleashes a serious can of whoop-ass, and the knowledge tears him to pieces inside.

Clint braces himself for the Avengers to descend on him in an overwhelming mass of awkward grief and obligation, but surprisingly they don't. Stark and Banner hang back to speak with Natasha, leaving Rogers, sharply put together in his dress uniform, as the only one who comes directly to him.

“Clint,” He greets, shaking his hand and touching his elbow in a sincere gesture of fellowship.

“Captain,”

“Please,” he says ducking his head a bit and rubbing the back of his neck., “Just... Steve.” Clint just nods and it's _weird_ , seeing Steve Rogers all flustered and fidgety after all the time he spent around Phil and his collection. He wonders what will happen to it, and then resolutely stops thinking about it. “I was wondering... If it would be okay with you if I speak today. For Agent Coulson.”

Clint is momentarily shocked into silence. He swallows and blinks rapidly, completely at a loss for how to respond. “You don't have to. I mean. Don't feel obligated, I know you didn't know him well--”

“I want to,” says Steve firmly, like the idea that Captain America would speak at Philip Coulson's funeral is perfectly normal and reasonable. “He was a good, brave man. It would be an honor.”

Fucking hell, an _honor._ Phil would have just shit a brick if... If.

“He would – I would – that --” the effort of speaking chips at his control and he has to stop as his vision gets blurry. Steve, surprisingly, doesn't look uncomfortable or impatient, just keeps a steady hand at his elbow while Clint pulls himself together. “Yes. Yes of course. Thank you,” he says eventually, rough-voiced and completely overcome. Steve nods and gives his arm a parting squeeze before drawing away to speak with Pepper Potts.

Clint spends the next few moments desperately reining himself in. He knows _intellectually_ that there's no shame in crying – his are not the only tears in the place – but he's afraid that if he lets go, gives in to the torrent of grief and pain, he'll never find his way back. And just, _goddamn_ he is so fucking _sick_ or crying, and this fucking _day_ and all he wants to do is crawl into a dark hole and lick his wounds in peace.

When he wrestles himself into some semblance of control, Stark and Banner approach him. Banner doesn't say anything, just grips his shoulder and looks at him with a kind of understanding. Stark seems uncharacteristically subdued and keeps his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Clint hasn't interacted with Stark much, but he's heard an earful about him from Nat and Phil so he braces himself for some wildly insensitive comment about him and Phil, or Phil's death, or _something._

What he says instead is “I'm rebuilding the tower.”

Clint blinks at the non sequitur.

Stark breezes on as if he's said nothing remotely out of the ordinary. “Well, obviously I'm gonna rebuild it, because it's _mine_ and I only just finished building it, Loki is _such_ a dick, but I meant I'm rebuilding it for us.”

Clint does not recoil at the sound of Loki's name. “Us?”

“Yeah, like,” he flaps his hand around vaguely. “The Avengers. I've been designing apartments for everyone – well Pepper might be helping a teensy bit – because every superhero team should have a sweet clubhouse. It's like a rule or something. It'll be a while before they're done, and no one _has_ to live there, of course, but it'll be a place for you. For everyone, I mean. That you can always have or fall back to when you need it.”

Stark's trying to play off that he doesn't care either way, but Clint can tell it's important to him. He thinks a bit about the person he read about in Stark's file and how that clashes with the man standing in front of him, who seems to want nothing more than to give his people a home and a place to belong. Clint wonders if that's what he is now, one of Stark's people, and how he feels about that. He's not sure, but the offer seems genuine, and Clint thinks about his apartment with Phil. He hasn't been able to even contemplate going back to it and facing the life they built together burned to ashes around him He doesn't know if he'll take him up on it but the offer, and the gesture behind it, chokes him up a little bit and all he can manage is a small nod.

Stark visibly relaxes. “Good. Great. Wonderful. I'll let you know when construction's done. Pep and I probably wont be spending a whole lot of time there because hi, I have a _mansion_ in _Malibu_ and why would I be anywhere else, but Bruce will be there doing science, won't you Brucie.”

Banner rolls is eyes and smiles, just a little, around the eyes. “Yes, Tony. You're babbling.”

“ _Me?_ Babble? Well, I _never_. Banner, I'll have you know...” they walk away without any awkward goodbyes and give Clint a chance to get his feelings under control.

Stark's not a bad guy. He'll have to tell Nat.

It's strange, he thinks, watching them from his solitary corner, how weirdly comforting their presence has ended up being. He'd thought them being here would be excruciating, another thing to endure on an unendurable day, but it wasn't. Then again, he realizes, they are not one of them strangers to loss. It's a depressing common ground they all share, familiar if not comforting. Having them here feels like fighting by their side in New York – nothing is okay, nothing is _right_ , but they know the drill and they manage to fit together, somehow.

And then it is time to take their seats and for the service to begin and there's just no holding back the tears anymore. After a minute, Clint stops trying. It's his husband's fucking funeral, he can cry if he wants to, god _damnit_.

Clint is sitting in the back with Natasha instead of a seat in the front. He doesn't like people sitting behind him, and he doesn't want the attention as he weeps brokenly into Natasha's shoulder. He feels like he's cried more in the past few days than he has his entire adult life. He knows he's seen more genuine tears on Nat's face than the entire time he's known her and he appreciates her letting them show here, not letting him fall apart alone.

Steve's speech is brief and poignant. “I did not know Agent Phil Coulson very long, but then you didn't need much time to see the strength of character and bravery that was essential to who he was...” it began. The silence in the hall was so complete that Clint could hear it clearly all the way in the back of the room. _Look at that, Phil,_ he thinks to himself. _Captain fucking America speaking at your funeral. How about that._

He doesn't bother to listen to the rest of the speakers. Religious sermons are of no use or help to him, and most of the people who speak Clint doesn't know well, or well enough to care what they say. He's so lost in grief and fragments of memory that he almost doesn't notice when May takes the podium. He's a little shocked; he wouldn't have expected her to speak.

Her eyes are still dry and her face terribly blank, but her hands shake as she unfolds a sheet of paper. She gives no introduction before beginning to read.

“Do not stand at my grave and weep,” she begins, and something twists in Clint, though he's not sure why. He feels memories wash over him as she speaks. “I am not there, I do not sleep.”

_\--Clint's bruised, bloody, and is pretty sure he has a concussion. The cop or FBI agent or whatever is talking at him angrily but Clint hasn't had access to a working hearing aid in two years and he can't understand a word the man is saying. It doesn't matter, he knows he's busted._

_He hears the door slam behind him, making the cop/agent jump and glare at whoever just entered the room. A hand enters his line of sight and taps the table in front of him and Clint looks up into kind brown eyes._

“ _I'm Agent Coulson,” he signs slowly and clumsily. “I have a job offer for you.”--  
_

“I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow.”

\--“ _It was a dark and stormy night,” Coulson reads, his voice calm and steady. “In her attic bedroom Margaret Murry, wrapped in an old patchwork quilt, sat at the foot of her bed and...”_

_Clint huddles into his thermal blanket and shivers violently, latching onto Coulson's voice and forcing himself to pay attention, to stay awake, until the blizzard blows over and they can get him off this goddamn mountain.--  
_

“I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain.”

_\--Phil opens the safehouse door to find Clint half-conscious and bloody, held upright only by an arm slung over the Black Widow's shoulder._

“ _'Made a diff'rent call, sir,” Clint slurs. Her eyes look hunted and they're both soaked through. Phil sighs and beckons them in.--_

“When you awaken in the morning's hush. I am the swift uplifting rush.”

 _\--Clint kisses him as soon as they enter the safe house, bruised and battered and high on adrenaline and the sweet, heady rush of_ living. _He has just enough time to wonder what the_ fuck _is wrong with him before Coulson is shockingly, miraculously, kissing him_ back _.--_

“Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night.”

\--" _You know,” Phil begins, “we're in Canada for the next few days.”_

_He says it so casually that it takes a few beats for Clint to get it. When he does, his smile is like the sun._

“ _Agent Phillip Coulson, are you proposing to me?”--  
_

“Do not stand at my grave and cry;”

 _\--“Don't ever do that to me again,” Phil says, gripping his hand tightly, his eyes full of unshed tears. “Do you read me, Specialist? Do not_ ever _do that to me again. That is an order.”_

_Clint nods and grips back just as tightly, gold rings digging into flesh.--_

“I am not there. I did not die.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "sokol" and "sokoljonok" mean "hawk" and "young hawk" respectively. Russian words wont be in Cyrillic mostly because I can't pronounce Cyrillic and when I read I like to hear how the words sound in my head, so there you go.
> 
> This chapter has a [companion piece](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1756905), for anyone interested in seeing a little bit of how Clint, Phil, and Audrey's relationship worked.


	3. Catch Me From Slipping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha catches him, every time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd once again by the ever lovely [rainonsand](http://rainonsand.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Although no one is contemplating suicide, I'm warning this chapter specifically for suicidal themes. Please practice good self care :)

“You know, I always thought it would be me.”

It's the first time he's spoken since their session started ten minutes ago and Amy looks up to give Clint her full attention. She's been sketching like she usually does, interweaving her notes between doodles and drawings. It's a trick she picked up in the early days, when she noticed how direct attention made him nervous sometimes (Clint's often wondered if she retypes her notes later or if his SHIELD psyche file is filled with her little sketches).

“Dying,” he clarifies in response to her quizzical look. Carefully, she puts her notebook down on the rooftop beside her and folds her hand in her lap, because this is apparently an Important Moment, and she waits for him to continue.

Clint sighs heavily, tugs at his ear, fiddles with a pant leg. It's not only because of her suddenly undivided attention; he's been fidgety and restless for days. “That sounds bad, when I say it like that. That's not what I mean.”

“What do you mean?” She asks, neutral. Professional. Clint closes his eyes and tips his face up to the sun, gathering his thoughts. He's grateful to her for holding their sessions up here during clear days. It's easier to think, to stay calm, curled up on a perch with the sun on his skin.

“We weren't ever going to make it to retirement. I mean, we talked about it, sure, but...” He pauses, takes a deep breath, continues. “We've nearly died so many times over the years. Our luck was always gonna run out, one day. Someone would make the wrong call, or we'd zig where we should have zagged and boom.” he pops his fingers like he's firing a handgun. “Done. Lights out. We knew that, we'd even _talked_ about it, but...”

“But you thought it would be you.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Clint inhales deeply, lets his breath out slow. “Because I'm the asset and he's the handler. Not that he didn't have his fair share of time in the field, obviously, but usually he'd be away from the action. The- the voice in my ear while I was the idiot who jumped out of buildings and crash-landed multimillion dollar planes on terrorist bunkers.” He can feel his fingernails digging into his palms; the small bite of pain is grounding.

“SHIELD has one of the lowest mortality rates of every similar organization in the world,” She points out, mercifully drawing no attention to how cracked and strained Clint's voice is.

“Yeah, sure. But STRIKE Team Delta went on some of the most dangerous missions. All the shiny tech and freaky experimental medical procedures don't mean shit if you've got a gut wound in a bombed-out library.” That one had been a nightmare. Clint shakes his head a little, trying to clear the memory of Natasha trying frantically to slow the bleeding, of Phil's tight voice in his ear ordering him to _stay alive, do you hear me Specialist? An extraction team is coming in fifteen minutes so you better fucking_ stay alive _that is an_ order.

Amy merely inclines her head, conceding the point, and gives him a moment to collect himself. And then she goes for the throat. “Do you think it should have been you?”

Clint looks at her then, smirking without humor and shaking his wrist pointedly. “There's only one answer to that if I want this thing off.”

Amy shakes her head. “We know each other better than that, Clint. If I benched every Agent with survivor's guilt we'd never have anyone to send on missions. This doesn't work if you treat me like an adversary and assume I'm actively looking for excuses to keep you on leave. Shutting down about tough feelings is the opposite of what will get you off of suicide watch and back in the field.” She knows without asking that that is what he desperately wants. They've spoken in the past about his need to feel useful, about how SHIELD fulfills that need and gives him a place and a purpose that he still hasn't outgrown the desire for.

Clint is silent for a while. Amy doesn't push, just goes back to her sketching and waits for him to answer in his own time. He'd found out, in the intervening days, how many Agents had died on the helicarrier. Twenty-three, with fifty-seven wounded. Not as bad as it could be, maybe, but –

“There are a lot of people who would be alive right now if I'd gotten buried with Pegasus,” he says quietly. “Maybe even Phil.”

Amy shakes her head. “You are a very good agent, Clint. One of our best. But do you really believe Loki couldn't have done what he did without you? That he wouldn't have?”

Clint doesn't have an answer for that.

“What about the other people Loki enthralled? Do you blame them for what they did under his spell? Do you think we should lock them up?”

He see's what she's doing, but he still can't help his emphatic reaction to that. “What? No, of course not.”

“So why do you insist on blaming yourself?”

A good question, one he really doesn't want to answer. Years ago, nearly a decade, Clint wouldn't have. He would have shut down this thread of questioning and Amy would have let him, handling him so, so carefully, the way he'd needed at the time. They've been at this for a while though, so now Clint takes a deep breath, says “Selvig designed a fail-safe.”

“And?”

Clint snarls. “And he was 'enthralled' just like I was, but he threw it off. He fought it just enough to make a difference while I was busy killing people. _Good_ people.” He's yelling by the end, he knows, but Amy knows him well enough to not be intimidated.

“Is it really the same? Selvig's rebellion was subtle, barely recognizable as one. We can't even know for sure if that addition was a subconscious resistance to Loki's hold; scientists by nature build their machines with fail-safes and emergency shut-offs.”

Clint is unconvinced. Amy settles back against the wall she's sitting against and looks up at him, tipping her head to the side thoughtfully.

“Why must you hold yourself to a different standard, Clint? Why are you not worth the same compassion and forgiveness you give others?”

Clint groans. “Are you gonna make me talk about my brother again?”

“Why, do you think that's relevant?”

–

Clint is disappointed when Natasha isn't waiting for him after his session, and then he's annoyed with himself for being disappointed. He's been practically living in her pocket for weeks, it's reasonable that she'd need some breathing room, and more than reasonable for her to expect him to be able to occupy himself on his own like a big boy.

It's past lunch time and he's not hungry, but he heads down to the cafeteria anyway. She'll glare at him if he doesn't eat anything and besides, it's one thing to lean on her for support and another completely to force her to take care of him every minute of the day like some hapless man-child. Even he is unwilling to stoop to that low.

He almost changes his mind at the door. The room isn't unbelievably packed, but it's still filled with more agents than he's faced alone since the helicarrier. Fury had done his best to keep the details of Loki's mind control and Clint's resultant involvement in the attack quiet, but a lot of people had seen him taking down fellow agents and “I was mind controlled by a magic spear from another dimension” is a bit of a tough sell, even for agents of SHIELD.

To say people aren't feeling particularly friendly towards him is something of an understatement.

He's tempted to decide he's not too proud to hide behind Natasha's skirts until the day he dies, presumably of shame, but in the end he figures he has enough reasons to be disgusted with himself without adding more to the pile and stalks into the room as inconspicuously as possible. Which, he reflects, is pretty fucking inconspicuous, and indeed no one seems to notice his entrance at first.

It's not until he's started eating, mechanically and without pleasure, that anyone takes notice of his presence at all. He's picked a table far from anyone else, near a window with his back to a wall and a clear view of the entire room. He supposes that it would have been better to sit closer to the occupied tables, that maybe sitting so far away made it too obvious he was avoiding human contact like the plague, but he could have been recognized even then and quite frankly he'd just wanted to sit by a fucking window. Most of NYHQ is underground and he spends a lot of time not seeing the sun.

Someone at one of the more heavily occupied tables motions vaguely towards him as he talks to his buddies, drawing all of their gazes. Most don't seem to be outright hostile, but none of them are friendly and Clint can feel the vague hope of getting through a public meal on his own without incident slide vainly from his grasp.

Clint keeps his head bent over his meal and watches them unobtrusively through his lashes. They're whispering urgently to each other and one man in particular seems rather agitated. It looks like one of his friends is halfheartedly attempting to talk him down but he seems resolute and there are one or two others who seem to be backing him up. Clint is not surprised in the least when the hothead gets up from the table and stalks toward him.

Hothead is young, probably fresh from the Academy and obviously lacking in practical experience. He stops directly in front of Clint and looms for a moment, which Clint ignores completely in favor of his lunch. The food is no more appealing than before some whippersnapper with a chip on his shoulder rolled up in his spot, but Clint's gonna make him fight for every second of this conversation. Or whatever it is this guy is interrupting his lunch for.

“You got a lot of balls showing your face here,” he hisses, and Clint's eyes nearly roll out of his head because this whole thing is so damned cliché it _hurts_.

“Just the two,” he drawls disinterestedly, not bothering to look up from his meal.

Hothead clearly doesn't like being ignored. He slams both his fists on the table and the entire cafeteria goes dead silent. _Well, that escalated quickly._ Clint catches his drink before it spills and slowly looks up, eyebrow raised in an expression of polite inquiry, like _is there a reason you're having a breakdown in the middle of a SHIELD cafeteria_?

Dude's no more impressed with the look than Clint was with his looming. His eyes narrow and his lips curl into a sneer. He puts his fists down on the table, one on either side of Clint's tray, and _leans_ into his space. “People are _dead_ because of you,” he growls, “and you're fucking sitting here making _jokes?”_ Every muscle in his body is tense anger, but Clint can see the pain and loss in his expression as easily as looking in the mirror.

They stare each other down for a few moments before Clint relents, backing down from the gaze and leaning back into his chair. “Who was it?” he asks dully, because really there's only one reason a complete stranger would be picking a fight with him in public.

If Nat were here she'd smack him upside the head and send angry guy packing, but she's not and Clint... Clint _owes_ these people, the people he got killed and the people who loved them. He owes it to them to... to remember them, or listen to the ones they left behind or _something_. At the very least they deserve to be more than numbers.

Hothead looks a little surprised at the question. “Agent Carroway. Agent Sally Carroway.” he bites out, voice still tight with anger but also a little confusion.

Clint nods, lets the name sink into his heart. Carroway. Sally. How old was she? Did she have family? Who cried at her funeral? How long had she been with SHIELD? Did he kill her himself or was it one of the goons he lead onto the carrier? The questions press at his head, cut him up, but he doesn't ask them. This man will probably not appreciate being grilled about a dead woman he clearly cared about a great deal.

“Well?” The man demands after a few beats of Clint saying nothing. “Aren't you going to say anything?”

“What do you want me to say?” Clint asks tiredly. It's not rhetorical; he'd say whatever this man needs him to, to feel a little bit better.

Hothead's lip curls disdainfully. Apparently this is the opening he was looking for, because he draws himself up before launching into a speech. “Oh, I don't know. How about you _explain_ to me why _you_ get to sit here, free as a bird, chowing down on some damn french fries, when I had to _bury my sister._ Maybe you can tell me all about how you get to turn traitor on the biggest spy organization in the world and keep on going like not a damn thing happened. It's disgusting, watching you walk around with Romanoff clucking over you like a mother hen. How do you fucking live with yourself?”

 _I don't know,_ Clint thinks but doesn't say. He doesn't say anything. The man – Agent Carroway, apparently – is right, and Clint knows that whatever reply he might have to back that up will only sound self-pitying and narcissistic. He ducks his head away from the other agent's gaze and runs a hand through his hair, mentally preparing himself to endure whatever else this guy has to say before he's satisfied enough to move on. Clint apparently got his sister killed; if Carroway wants to use him as an emotional punching bag well, it's only fair.

Instead of a fresh round of vitriol, Clint sees him freeze out of the corner of his eye. Confused, Clint looks up. The agent is staring wide-eyed at his left hand and Clint resists the urge to hunch his shoulders and hide it under the table.

Carroway licks his lips, suddenly nervous. “You're married?”

Clint swallows. “Yeah.”

Clint can _see_ him deflate, all that righteous anger just falling away. “I didn't know that.”

Clint shrugs, deliberately casual even though his shoulders want to climb up around his ears.. “Most people don't. You know how it is.”

It's immediately apparent from the look on the man's face that he does. SHIELD is a para-military organization, but it's not _strictly_ military. Fraternization is frowned upon but there aren't exactly regulations against it. SHIELD agents are by necessity isolated from the rest of the population and the work means that strong attachments between agents are inevitable. Such strong bonds can be as much as an asset in the field as a liability. Some Supervising Officers will refuse to take on romantic partners, or split them up when the relationship gets serious, but there are a few who prefer to work with them.

(Even with this relatively lax policy, Phil and Clint weren't exactly on the up and up, considering Phil was also Clint's SO. He's pretty sure they only got away with it because STRIKE Team Delta was one of the most effective field teams in the organization. It also probably didn't hurt that Phil was tight with Fury, though he would never use their personal friendship to leverage those kinds of concessions)

So yea, they weren't exactly the only married couple working together. Probably not even the only secretly married couple. Regardless, wedding bands as good as paint a target on a spouse's back, like throwing your greatest weakness up on a billboard, and SHIELD agents tended to do away with them for security's sake. It's generally understood that, if an agent _is_ openly wearing a ring, their spouse is probably beyond targeting.

Carroway has the grace to look shamed, and that makes Clint feel _really fucking uncomfortable_ because he does not deserve this man's sympathy and he has no fucking clue what to do now that he suddenly has it.

“How,” Carroway asks quietly, all bravado and righteous anger gone as if they never were.

Clint considers lying, and then figures there's no point. “Helicarrier,” he answers curtly.

The man nods once, jerkily, then turns back to his friends without a word. They look between him and Clint, understanding dawning uncomfortably on their faces, and continue their meal in near-silence.

The irony makes Clint want to punch something. Phil is dead because of Clint, and he still manages to protect him. It feels like cheating, to have his loss absolve him from the anger and hatred of the people who's lives he shattered _(and he deserves that anger. He should have been faster, should have shot Loki when he had the chance, should have run, should have_ something). For a moment he considers leaving the ring off from now on, but the impulse is almost comically masochistic even for him. Besides, Nat would notice and know why and beat the hell out of them next time they spar.

Clint's hands curl into fists and he feels hot anger well up in his chest. He gets up and viciously shoves the rest of his lunch in the garbage can, ignoring the looks he draws from the other agents as he stalks from the room. He's not even sure _why_ he's angry, but he is and he's not gonna throw a fit in the damn cafeteria like some child. He can wait till he gets to the range for that.

–

_Nock. Draw. Release._

What Clint really wants to do, which he suspects is the reason why his range time is being supervised, is shoot until his fingers bleed and his arms tremble too badly to draw. It would a long time; he's got decades of calluses and conditioning from using exactly this coping mechanism. He wants to fill his mind and body to the brim with pain and exhaustion so he doesn't have to _think._

_Nock. Draw. Release._

There is a hole in his life where Phil should be. Where there once was quiet lunches and private smiles and dry wit and _safety_ there is nothing but empty space. A hundred times a day Clint thinks of a joke to tell, some bullshit to bitch about, a moment to share. A hundred times a day Clint's feet lead him to a familiar office, his hands reach for a second coffee mug, his fingers start a text message. Each time, he remembers. Each time, it cuts him.

_Nock. Draw. Release._

SHIELD was the only real home he'd ever had and now it's hostile ground, friends and coworkers turned reluctant allies and cold antagonists. He does not want to think of how SHIELD's collective hatred burns him, rubs salt in his wounds, even though he deserves it (but he doesn't, but he _does)._ He doesn't want to think about how he's supposed to be _okay,_ eventually, somehow. He does not want to think of how impossible that seems, how if he doesn't get better he'll never get off the bench, and then he'll have _nothing._

_Nock. Draw. Release._

His attention narrows until his whole world is targets and arrows and steady breath. His aids are off, the nearby gunfire nothing more than dull, inconsequential vibrations in his chest.

_Nock. Draw. Release._

It's the closest he can get to peace.

_Nock. Draw. Release._

It's not enough.

_Nock. Draw. Release._

Natasha finds him before his fingers bleed.

–

“Okay, when you said _there is something really important I need your help with right now,_ this is not exactly what I had in mind.” Clint is saying later, standing in the doorway of Natasha's bathroom with a pair of hair clippers in one hand and a box of hair dye in another.

“That's because you have no imagination.”

“I think it's because you need a refresher on what the word 'important' means.”

She gives him a haughty look and takes the clippers and dye from him, exchanging them for a comb with a raised eyebrow.

Clint huffs out a breath as she perches on the toilet seat with her back to him. “Dammit, Natasha, I'm a sniper not a hairdresser.”

Natasha's lips twitch in amusement. “You have another five minutes to get enough bitching in for you to pretend you don't like doing my hair.”

“I'm gonna need more than that to soothe my masculine ego.”

“Tough shit, that's what you get.”

“ _Cruel_.”

Something he wasn't told before picking up the superspy gig – there were a lot of things he wasn't told before picking up the superspy gig – is how many random-ass skills he needed to learn. Granted, he'd learned some of them in the circus; there were a lot of things a low-budget band of traveling performers couldn't outsource and he was expected to help with a little bit of everything even after getting his own act. He'd always had steady hands and paid attention to detail, which had had endeared one of the trick riders in particular to him and for years she wouldn't let anyone else help her get ready. She had been kind and patient and funny, in a quiet way, and sometimes he still wonders what happened to her.

It's quick work to pick the tangles out of Tasha's hair, it's so short nowadays, though he does take his time with it. “I miss the curls,” he tells her as he reaches for the clippers. Natasha snorts disdainfully.

“The curls were completely ridiculous, I have no idea what I was thinking,” She retorts, tipping her head to the side so he can shear red locks off the right third of her head. Her roots are just barely beginning to show. “Completely impractical, always in my face when I fought. I liked the color, though.”

Clint hums in agreement, though he recalls Natasha fighting just fine with long hair. She'd grown it out during a string of domestic missions that required more schmoozing and political maneuvering than heavy hitting and flying thighs of death. People tended to dismiss her more with long hair and if asked she'd always say that's why she'd grown it. Clint, on the other hand, knows better. She'd talked a good game, but cutting her hair short in preparation for a mission in South America had been unexpectedly tough for her.

“I do like this one,” he continues, reaching for a pair of scissors to trim the hair at the back. “Totally badass. Little flashy though?” he says it as a question, but she just hums.

“It's easy to style it so it's not obvious,” she says, and leaves it at that.

His part is done after he trims the rest of her hair to her satisfaction, running his fingers through it a couple times. She inspects it in the mirror, gives a pleased hum, and then gets to applying the hair dye. This time around it's a shade of red closer to black than he's seen in years. He's not stupid; he picks up on the symbolism of the new style right away, and it puts a lump in his throat. He leans against the door frame and focuses on breathing steadily as she wraps her hair to let the color set in.

“Hey,” she says softly, putting her hands on his arms and making him startle a bit and blink his way back into the present. She looks serious and ridiculous with her hair all wrapped up in plastic. She doesn't ask if he's okay. They both know the answer to that.

“Your turn,” she says instead, and Clint raises an eyebrow at her. “You're getting fluffy,” she elaborates. “It's pathetic. Cute, but pathetic. Come on, sit.”

It's not true – Clint's hair is hardly longer than he normally keeps it -- but he lets her push him onto the toilet seat and start running a comb through his hair anyway.

The first time they did this was a far less soothing experience. Istanbul, during the early days, when a standard smash and grab had turned into an elaborate infiltration involving a fancy party, some rich crime bosses, and a slapdash cover so flimsy only the Black Widow (and her trusty sidekick Hawkeye) could pull it off. In situations like that, it doesn't matter how good the delivery or how flawless the accent, a shitty haircut or an outdated fashion choice would have them made in point-oh-three seconds. It wasn't the first time they'd walked into a situation like that, but it was the first where infiltration hadn't been part of the plan back at HQ, and they needed to be able to look the part on the fly. Nat had been surprised at his ease around a pair of scissors.

Since she didn't like strangers with pointy objects at her back any more than he did, they'd gotten into the habit of going to each other when they needed a trim. Or, in Natasha's case, a change of look.

“There we go,” she says after a while, swiping a hand through his hair a few more times than perhaps is strictly necessary. “All done.”

“Thanks,” he says, looking up at her and doing his best to smile. He doesn't mean for the hair cut.

She punches his shoulder before moving away to clean up. “Don't be stupid.”

–

A week later Clint is standing on a rooftop, breathing in open air, soaking in sunlight, and letting his mind expand to a moment of peace and stillness. Natasha is behind him, doing a few warm-up flips and tumbles. The world is quiet, muted; his aids are tucked safely away in a pouch at his waist. It's the most at ease he's felt in weeks.

Natasha steps into his line of sight. “Ready?” she signs. He grins at her and launches himself off the rooftop without preamble.

Nothing quite beats some of the bigger cities of Eastern Europe for freerunning, with their crowded rooftops that are practically designed to be a traceur's playground, but New York poses it's own set of challenges and obstacles.

It's been a long time since he's done a run like this without the figurative hounds of hell snapping at his heals, with just sun and sky and Tasha at his side and adrenaline singing in his veins. It feels good, it feels _right_ after spending weeks cooped up feeling like something's just under his skin trying to claw it's way out. He's never quite picked up the trick of being stuck inside all the time, and that combined with the forced idleness means he feels like he's been going slowly insane. Ironic, considering the reasons he's cooped up inside in the first place.

He takes it easy at first. His mind catalogs potential paths, necessary movements, and he picks their course automatically, almost at random. Nat's letting him take the lead on this one, even though she's definitely better at this than he is.

( _Once, a long time ago, he called her “little spider” for the easy way she scrambled up buildings and she'd nearly broken his wrist. “They used to call me that when I was small,” she'd said by way of apology, in a time when apologies were nearly impossible for her. He never asked who “they” were.)_

There's plenty dangerous about what they're doing, and he's not sure if it's entirely legal. They stay up high, leaping the gaps between buildings, running up walls to catch a ledge, a bar, a light fixture. Anything he can wrap his hands around. He keeps his steps quiet, his landings silent. He tucks, rolls, leaps to his feet and flings himself at the next obstacle without pause. Natasha keeps pace with him easily, grinning at him when they make eye contact, the two of them moving nearly in tandem. They are perfectly in step, like a finely oiled machine, like a gun in each hand.

And then there is a point when everything shifts. A handhold, not as solid or steady as it had appeared when Clint threw himself at it from his steady lope. Old brick crumbles under his hand and for one piercing, awful moment Clint is sure he is about to fall five stories to his death.

And then Nat catches him, like she always does, and helps pull him up to the roof of the building. She's breathing hard and her eyes are wide, but otherwise she seems calm; they've been through closer calls, the two of them. At least no one was shooting at them.

“You alright?” she asks between heavy gasps for air.

“Yeah,” Clint replies, breathing equally labored. He can practically feel the adrenaline surging under his skin, making everything feel bright and present. He looks over the ledge, sees the drop that almost killed him, and feels a laugh bubble up from his throat.

It takes him by surprise. He hasn't laughed in... he can't actually remember how long. Definitely not since the Battle. He can see a worried frown start to form on Nat's face but he doesn't want to address it, doesn't want to think why it's there. He just wants to ride this high before he inevitably crashes back to earth. He wants to enjoy feeling something besides _pain_ for once.

“Allons-y!” He cries, taking off like a shot and laughing at his own joke. He doesn't even wait for her to scramble up after him.

The run... changes, after that. Clint pushes himself to full speed, tearing across rooftops and leaping over obstacles. His lungs burn, his whole body burns with strain and fatigue and he relishes it, absorbs it, pushes harder to feel more.

Natasha keeps pace easily, but there are no more glances and grins. There's no more partnership. There is just him, hurtling himself through space and her grimly keeping pace, still matching him move for move, and watching him like a hawk.

I'm _supposed to be the hawk,_ he thinks nonsensically and laughs some more, leaping across a gap between buildings that is just this side of his upper limit. He just barely reaches the edge, tips himself forward into a roll and the rush spikes deep in his chest, filling his mind and body, and he wants more. _He wants more_ he hasn't felt so alive in _weeks._

He's just coming out of his roll when he feels a body slam in to him, knocking him right back off his feet and out of his head space. That last more than anything pisses him _the fuck_ off and he fights back viciously, struggling with the person on top of him for a few brief, achingly pure moments of rage.

Natasha pins him like a misbehaving puppy. “Stop,” she snaps angrily in a voice that brooks no argument and Clint stops. The manic energy drains out of him quick enough to make him dizzy and he starts to feel like a complete asshole. He looks up at her, hair a wreck, panting heavily, eyes flashing with anger, and thinks that she is the most beautiful goddamn thing he has ever seen.

“If you don't knock it the fuck off,” she says when she's sure she has Clint's attention, emphasizing her words precisely so he has no trouble reading them, “I will make you take the bus back home. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I'm sorry,” Clint says as he tips his head back and looks up at the sky. He can't look at her, and he can't think of anything to say, any explanation, that doesn't sound awful in his own head. “I wasn't thinking,” he says finally, which is true, and she makes an unhappy noise in her throat.

“Clearly,” she snipes, but there's no heat to it. She gets off him and reaches a hand down to help him up, so he knows he's forgiven. He _also_ knows that this little... incident isn't forgotten, because Natasha Romanoff never forgets.

They stand there for a moment, and she runs an appraising eye over his body. “Did you eat this morning?” she asks in sign. She'd rushed off at some horrendous hour in the morning and hadn't joined him in time for breakfast.

“Yes,” he lies. She raises a disbelieving eyebrow at him. “...maybe?”

“Is that a question or an answer, Barton?”

“Fuck, Nat, you sound like...” _Phil._ He clears his throat. “...Fury. No, fuck, I didn't eat, okay?”

She rolls her eyes and aims a kick in his direction. It's widely telegraphed and Clint dodges it easily. “You men are so hopeless,” she chides, the look on her face melting into fond exasperation. “Come on, there's a cafe near here I like to go for lunch sometimes. If we can continue on without you falling into dramatics again, I'll show you where it is.”

Clint takes a few deep breaths, recentering himself. “Sounds good,” he signs back at her and she nods, leading the way.

The cafe is a nice place, but not so nice that anyone looks twice at them walking in in workout gear. He lets Nat order for him because he can't be bothered to spend ten minutes staring at a menu and she knows what he likes anyway. He's scanning the area to find an open table for them when he spots Pepper Potts sitting by the window.

Huh.

She waves at him, not looking at all surprised to see them. He waves back, but he also looks at Nat like _what is she doing here?_ She just shoos him off to go join her.

“Clint,” Pepper says warmly, putting her hands on his shoulders and doing that weird side-kiss cheek thing that classy people do sometimes.

“Ms. Potts,” Clint replies, trying hard for personable and getting the feeling he's missed the mark by a significant margin, but he's really fucking confused. She's wearing designer jeans and a nice blouse; clothes that won't stand out at first glance in a place like this but that clearly cost enough money to make it obvious she's slumming it. This isn't the kind of place where a person just happens to run into the CEO of Stark Industries by crazy random happenstance.

“Please, call me Pepper,” she chides good-naturedly with a sunny smile. “I'm really happy to finally get a chance to talk to you,” she adds, her mannerism still pleasant but with a solemn hint of _sorry about your dead husband._ It makes Clint feel really, _really_ uncomfortable.

Nat comes over before he can really wallow in how far out of his depth he feels. Pepper greats her even more warmly than she did Clint, like maybe they do this all the time. Hell, maybe they do; he's never pretended to know everything about Natasha's life.

“Food's on it's way,” Natasha says as she sits down, motioning for Clint to sit next to her. “Did you order yet, Pepper?”

“Oh my god your _hair_.” she exclaims in lieu of an answer. Nat grins sheepishly and runs her fingers through it in a show of self-conciousness.

“You hate it,”

“No I _love_ it, it's such a good look for you. Honestly, I'm jealous,” Pepper says with apparently genuine admiration.

“Maybe you should give it a shot.” She gives Clint a wink that he returns with a look of utter bewilderment. “I know a _great_ haidresser.”

“My God could you imagine? The press would have a field day, and I don't even want to _think_ about how that board meeting would go down.”

Natasha laughs in response and what follows is small talk. Clint can do small talk when he's undercover, but he's absolute shit at it the rest of the time (not that he's that great at it even undercover, as Natasha is always quick to remind him). It doesn't help that he has no idea what the fuck is going on here. Pepper is obviously not surprised to see them there, so at least they're not trying to insult his intelligence with an “Oh fancy seeing _you_ here!” gambit, but he'd really like to know why they've set up this meet-and-greet in the first place.

Their food arrives after a few minutes of Nat and Pepper chatting amicably and Clint sitting silently and broadcasting his obvious confusion in the hopes that it will prompt someone into giving him some clue as to _what the fuck is happening._

“So, Pepper, how are the renovations going at the tower?” Nat asks just as Clint's given up and decided to inhale his food (some sort of wrap thing, whatever it's good) until someone decides to clue him the fuck in.

Pepper rolls her eyes dramatically, conveying both exasperation and amusement. “Oh, you know how Tony is. Completely over the top, all of it. He changes his mind every few days and drives himself crazy trying to figure out what everyone might want.”

Natasha quirks an eyebrow. “I'd never pegged him for an interior designer.”

Pepper grants them a conspiratorial grin. “Well, you didn't hear it from me, but he loves this kind of thing. Drives me and everyone involved up a wall, but you can't argue with results. Although, that reminds me; he wants everyone's floor to be “custom tailored” – don't ask – and I've only just barely convinced him that _talking_ to the people he's making things for is better than hacking into their top-secret SHIELD personnel files and reading their whole life's story.”

Clint blanches at the thought. He's not ashamed of his past – mostly – but there's a lot in his file that he'd really rather keep to himself, given the option, and he shudders to think what kind of residence Tony would design for him based on what he read there. Even that's not as bad as what he'd see in _Natasha's_ file, jesus christ.

“Yeah, no,” Clint cuts in, speaking for the first time. Both women look at him expectantly, and Clint clears his throat. “Just... It's really not necessary to make some super-special custom apartment,” the very idea makes Clint's insides squirm uncomfortably. “I mean, it's not like I'm going to stay there much.” He realizes after the sentence comes out of his mouth how ungrateful that sounds. “I mean --”

“It's okay, Clint,” Pepper says, smiling softly at him. “Tony's just being Tony, no one's going to force you to live anywhere you don't want, and no one's going to be offended if you don't want to just move into the tower.” She grins at him. “Trust me when I say I understand if it's all a little overwhelming.”

Clint nods, relieved, and relaxes a little bit.

“Still, you're going to want to have some say in what happens at the tower, because letting Tony have free reign over your space is risky at best. Maybe we can all get together along with him and do some brainstorming?”

Clint would honestly rather jump off a roof – again – but before he can open his mouth Natasha is cheerfully agreeing and he'd feel like a complete tool for refusing. He regrets his decision to stay quiet after the next words out of Nat's mouth.

“So, Clint,” she begins in a deliberately casual tone that has alarm bells ringing in Clint's head immediately. “Have you decided what you're going to do about the apartment?”

The blood freezes in his veins and he stares at her, flicking his eyes over to Pepper like _seriously? You are seriously bringing this up right now?_

“Apartment?” Pepper asks, tentatively, like she can sense the sudden shift in mood.

“Clint and Phil's,” Nat tells her gently, and Clint kicks her foot under the table because wow, he so does _not_ want to talk about this in front of Stark's girlfriend.

Pepper nods, like she understands, even though she _can't._ “Have you been back there yet?”

“No,” he says through gritted teeth, staring at his food that he's lost all appetite for and wondering why the fuck this conversation is happening.

Nat puts a hand on his arm and he resists the urge to throw it off and make a scene. “What are you going to do? Are you going to move back there?”

“You know I'm not,” he snaps at her and taps on the table, making it look like a nervous tic. Not difficult, given his current state of agitation. _What are you doing?_ he says in their code. He's always regretted the lack of profanity as they've developed it over the years, but he feels that his expression implies it very well.

 _Trust me,_ she taps back discreetly on his arm, and he does, of course he does, but he's getting really fucking pissed off right now and he wants to know her game.

“Do you need help moving out?” Pepper asks smoothly, acting as if everything about this conversation is perfectly normal. “I've got some burly men on SI's payroll, and there's plenty of storage space in the Tower in case you need it.”

“SHEILD has people for that,” he forces out through the tightness in his throat. He actually wonders if they've dealt with it already. Now that he thinks about it, he's surprised he hasn't had this conversation earlier. With SHIELD people, that is, people whose business this kind of thing is and not _Pepper_ fucking _Potts._ Part of Clint hopes SHIELD has already swept through and incinerated the lot of it, even as the thought makes something twist painfully in his chest.

“Clint,” Nat says softly, and he's starting to get real tired of that carefully gentle tone of voice. She taps _Safe, Trust me, Safe,_ over and over on his arm as if to keep him from bolting. “It's a good idea. This needs to be dealt with,” something clenches in his chest at the “dealing” with their apartment, like cleanup after an op gone sour. “and Stark Industries people are efficient and discreet.”

 _So are SHIELD's_ he thinks, but doesn't say. She's obviously running some kind of plan here, and Clint's gonna back her play even if he's pissed off. Like, really, _really_ pissed off.

“Fine,” he grits out, and he doesn't miss the way the two women relax a little at his agreement. “Just... Yeah, fine, whatever. Sounds good.”

“Okay. I'll talk to my people and send you an email to pick a date and time. Speaking of, Natasha did you get the last email I sent? I didn't get a reply from you...”

Clint slumps back into his seat and tunes out of the conversation because he is just completely done with everything right now. He considers shutting off his aids to make a point but decides that's too close to being a sulky child for his tastes, so he just stares at his food instead as Nat and Pepper chat amiably around him.

Clint doesn't finish his food and Nat doesn't pester him about it, for once.

–

“Mind telling me what the _fuck_ that was about?” Clint demands as soon as they've exited the cafe and made their goodbyes to Pepper. He does not shout. He _doesn't_.

“Pepper is a friend of mine and was a good friend of Phil's,” she says matter-of-factly. “I thought you should meet her.”

Clint bites back a growl of frustration. He wants to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, but if there's one thing he'll _never_ do it's put his hands on Natasha in anger. Instead he just glares at her and waits, because he knows deflection is pretty much a reflex for her and she would never insult his intelligence by leading him into so obvious a set-up without planning to tell him what her game is after.

Sure enough, after a few beats her posture changes to something more relaxed, casual. She runs her hand through her newly shorn hair, an obvious tell for nervousness to display her trust in him, to invite trust. He hates himself a little for analyzing her this way, but he can't help it after being so blatently manipulated. Sometimes he just can't shut down the part of his brain that hyper analyzes other people's motives, just like she can't shut down the part of her that manipulates. It's just how they are.

“Look,” she begins. “You weren't there that day on the helicarrier – no, don't look at me like that – you weren't there, so you didn't didn't see what a goddamn mess everyone was.”

Clint nods and tries his best to unclench his jaw. “You mentioned that during the debrief.”

“Yeah, that was the cliffs notes version. Honestly, it was an embarrassment. Everyone was squabbling like children when we were in the middle of a crisis that could destroy the planet. And sure, some of that was the spear, but the spear wasn't to blame for Stark and Rogers sniping at each other on the quinjet, or the epic testosterone-fueled dick-measuring contest in the woods between the them and Thor. If Loki had wanted to escape he could have done so without even breaking a sweat and I find that professionally offensive.”

Clint grunts. “Cool story and all, but I'm not really getting what this has to do with the most excruciating surprise lunch date of my life.”

“Drama Queen,” she chides jokingly, but knocks it off immediately at the look on Clint's face. She presses her lips together. “It's because... because someone had to _die_ for us to get our act together, and even then we mostly won because of luck.”

“Phil's death is _lucky?”_

“No, it's not, that's my point. If we're really going to do this earth's mightiest heroes thing, if this team is really going to be all that's standing between the world and the next disaster, we can't rely on luck and we _certainly_ can't require another sacrifice to remind us all to get our shit together and act like adults. The fact that we needed one the first time is just... unacceptable, completely unacceptable.” She's speaking more quickly now, with a gleam in her eye Clint's never seen before. “So we need to be a team. A _real_ team, who can work together without squabbling. We can't just... move on, go our separate ways and hope that when we come together the next time we have to save the world – and there _will_ be a next time, you know as well as I do how fucking strange things have been getting the past few years – we can't just hope that we'll magically be able to work as a team, and that we'll have remembered all our lessons from New York.”

She's right, of course, about all of it. He just has no idea how that has anything to do with what happened in the cafe. “And Potts...?”

“If we're going to do this, we need to do it organically. We can't just sit around a table and play icebreakers or do a movie night or however the fuck real people bond,” Clint snorts a little at the absurdity of an Avengers movie night. “Pepper is a connection between the two of us and Stark, who's obviously come to some of the same conclusions I have if they way he's rebuilding the tower is anything to go by, and he and Banner are already getting close. We still have to worry about Rogers, and Thor if he ever comes back to this side of the galaxy, but as far as forging connections it's a good start.”

“So this,” he points at the cafe that they're standing in front of. “Was, what, you riding herd on a bunch of manchildren? Nat, you're not a nursemaid any more than you're a soldier; why are you taking point on this and not, like, Fury? The Avengers Initiative is _his_ brain child.”

Nat purses her lips and lets her eyes slide away from Clint's, crosses her arms in a protective gesture. “Because Phil,” she pauses, collects herself, and continues. “Because Phil, _died_ for this team. He died trying to save the world and believing the Avengers could do it.” Clint walks over and puts a hand on her arm, and she leans into him. She's still not looking at him, but he can see unshed tears in her eyes. “It can't have been for nothing, Clint. We can't lose him and then just... just let the team fall apart.” Clint wraps his arms around her and she breaths deeply and steadily in his neck. “I won't let it be for nothing, I _won't.”_

“Yeah,” Clint says into her hair, voice thick and rough. “Yeah, okay. Yeah.”

They stand like that for a few moments, collecting themselves, comforting each other, before Clint says “You're such a fucking sap.” He doesn't ask her why she didn't tell him this before they met with Potts. It's just not her way

Natasha pulls away and punches him hard on the arm, grinning. “You'd better not tell anyone, Barton.” she says. “I have a reputation to uphold.

So then there's nothing left to do but run back. Natasha takes the lead this time, but that's not the only difference; it's harder, more grueling, the burn in his lungs and muscles weighing him down instead of propelling him forward. Part of it is because he's already worked hard, of course, and the break just allowed fatigue to seep into his limbs. But some of it – a lot of it – is because Clint wont let himself sink into that head space, the runners high. He's scared himself, today, and he's not yet willing to return to that floaty space above thought where he apparently doesn't care if he lives or dies.

He does care. He does. It worries him a little that he needs reminding.

Eventually they make it back to HQ. Clint is completely wrecked, not one part of his body not worked to exhaustion, but he knows he's gonna need a least an hour in the range to settle his mind down. He realizes that it's not good for him to be pushing himself this hard, that he's not in his twenties anymore and he's barely eating enough to keep up with his energy needs, but he _absolutely_ cannot deal with this itchy, restless feeling that's been plaguing him since a week into his forced leave. So, this is how it's gonna have to be for a while.

“Clint,” Natasha says, before they enter the building. “You need to tell Amy about today.”

Clint's jaw clenches and he can feel the anger surge back up. “You mean the way you ambushed me into agreeing to let a stranger pack away my dead husband's stuff?” Okay, so that was maybe not fair, but Clint is _so unbelievably done_ right now and he's having trouble keeping a lid on things.

Nat doesn't seem the least bit bothered. “That too, if you feel the need to, but you know that's not what I'm talking about.” There is steel in her voice that tells him this is non negotiable, and she plays dirty enough that he knows there will be an e-mail in Amy's inbox the day after his next session, regardless of what he says..

“Yeah, fine, whatever,” he says and switches off his aids as he walks away because apparently he's not finished with his temper tantrum. Nat just lets him go.

–

Later that night, when it's time for bed and after he's spent a few hours settling his mind with shooting, he goes to her rooms. She doesn't say a word about what a shit he's been to her all day, or how much he scared her. She just pulls him down next to her and wraps herself around the curve of his body. Clint's days lately are pretty much either bad or worse. Today is a worse day, and on worse days he spends the night with Natasha.

Clint dreams that he sets fire to his and Phil's apartment, only to realize after that it was a terrible mistake. He runs around trying vainly to put out the flames as everything burns to ash in his hands.

–

Clint honestly does not think he's capable of even _thinking_ about the return to his and Phil's apartment, let alone planning for the packing up and hauling away of their shit. Fortunately, Pepper and Nat seem completely willing to do all the legwork themselves. Together, the two of them are just _frighteningly_ competent, and cut through what must be a nightmare of red tape and convoluted SHIELD security clearance protocols in two days flat. Before Clint can even really process what's happened Nat's practically force-feeding him breakfast before dragging him out to meet Pepper and the SI movers.

He's okay, he's _fine,_ the whole ride there. He breaths deeply and keeps his mind carefully blank. He's fine when they get out of the car. He's fine when they walk through the building's lobby, when he greets Pepper, when he see's the group of people with Stark Industries IDs around their necks. He's fine in the elevator, and when he walks down the hallway. At the door, he balks.

He's not fine.

He's not even on the same planet as fine.

“Nat,” he whispers desperately, arm outstretched in the act of unlocking the door. “Nat, I can't.”

“Yes you can,” she murmurs soothingly. She rubs his shoulder a bit before running her hand down his arm. His hand is white-knuckled and trembling as it grips the key, and she takes it in both her hands. “You can. I'm here. It'll be okay.”

 _No it won't,_ he thinks desperately, but it doesn't matter. He has to do this. Quickly, clumsily, he unlocks the door before he looses his nerve, but he pauses again before opening the door.

“We'll stay out here for a little,” Pepper says gently. “Give you a minute.”

Clint is not at all sure that that is what he wants or needs, but he nods jerkily in acknowledgment and walks through the door.

He has to fight not to grip Natasha's hand like a child. It's every bit as horrible as he'd feared it would be, being back here. The whole place _smells_ like Phil, and it slams into his sense-memory hard enough to knock the breath out of him.

He can feel his breath catch and shudder with incoming tears, and he clamps down on that shit _hard_. If he starts with that he's pretty sure he wont stop and two weeks after the funeral that's just not acceptable anymore, not in front of strangers.

He's supposed to go around and pick things to pack up and take with them instead of languish in storage until he's not too much of a basket case to actually deal with them (so, forever), but Clint has always traveled light. He's hardly in his life ever owned more than what can fit in a go bag for a quick escape and when he did, well. He didn't own it for very long.

Except with Phil. He'd been thinking in his head about coming here to deal with _Phil's_ things but standing here, in the living room, he realizes they're half his too. There's a purple blanket that Clint brought home one day thrown carelessly over the back of the couch, ready to wrap around the two of them for a movie. The bookshelves are stocked with some of his own selections. The video games, he realizes, are almost entirely his; Phil was always weirdly loyal to his mindless first person shooters but Clint liked a little variety to his gaming during the rare downtimes they had.

Stiffly, Clint moves forward, starting a slow circuit of the apartment. They knew they'd be gone a while, one of the few times they did, but somehow there is still an impression of life briefly interrupted. As if the place was just holding its breath, waiting for its people to come back to it.

There are pictures on display throughout the place, an odd bit of normalcy that Clint had never really gotten over. Most are just him and Phil, though there's a lot of Audrey. There are even a few pictures of Natasha, though she's always uneasy of having her picture taken.

There are collectables, old-timey knicknacks on display, that were all Phil. Clint had never really caught the habit of putting small personal items on display, and he'd always like to tease Phil about his obsession with times gone by.

“ _You know, the world was never as idyllic as you make it out to be in your head?”_

“ _How would you know?”_

“ _S'just life. There's always good and bad and complicated shit. We didn't invent all that in the 21_ _st_ _century, they just talked a better game.”_

“ _True. But still, it's a a nice thought.”_

“ _Whatever you say, sir,”_

“ _What did I say about calling me sir outside work?”_

“ _Don't make promises I don't intend to keep?”_

“ _Damn right. Come here.”_

Clint freezes during his perusal, thrown out of his memories by the feeling of something... off. He looks at the shelf in front of him with a little more alertness, and then the shelves around the living room.

“There are things missing.” he says. His voice is tight with anger and quiet, but it still sounds loud to his ruined ears. Natasha snaps her head around too look at him.

“What things?”

Clint shrugs. “Just... some things Phil used to collect and display. Some pictures. Nothing sensitive, but,” his hands clench into fists and he fights to keep his temper under control. “Looks like I'm gonna have to have another chat with Nick.”

“Sure it's him?”

“Dunno who the fuck else it would be, and if it's not we have a whole fuckload of new problems to consider.” God fucking _damn_ it this is the last fucking thing he feels capable of dealing with right now. He can hear blood rushing in his ears and he closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to steady himself.

He startles, a little, at a hand on his arm but it's only Natasha. “One problem at a time, sokoljonok,” she says softly. “Let's bring Pepper in and get this started.”

Clint nods, not looking up, as Pepper walks briskly into the apartment and starts snapping out orders. “Clint,” she says, kind but businesslike. “Is there anything you'd like to take with you instead of putting it all straight into storage?”

He's tempted to say no. He feels trembly and fragile and he really, really doesn't want to be here anymore. But when he opens his mouth to answer, Natasha gives him a significant look and he closes it, considering. On the one hand, he doesn't want any reminders of his old life and what he's lost. On the other, he _does_ want reminders of everything they shared. Something solid to prove that it wasn't all a dream, that he was loved.

Clint nods and moves through the apartment with a little more purpose as the movers start doing their thing. The couch blanket is one of the things that goes in the box that will be coming back with him. So do some of Clint's clothes (he'd forgotten how much _clothing_ he has) and, he is not ashamed to admit, one of Phil's sweatshirts and a pair of his sweatpants. The rest of it, including Phil's suits that weren't destroyed at Pegasus and Clint's one suit (Phil had insisted, Clint hardly ever wore it) is going straight into storage.

There are files in the closet. Nothing too sensitive, but some of it is work-related and needs to be shredded. There are personal files for the two of them that Clint spends approximately five seconds paging through before he can't handle it and snaps at someone to pack it up. He'll look through them later. Or never. The apartment has become a flurry of activity now, and Clint is trying not to think of how quickly everything is disassembling, of how it feels as though his life is dissolving around him. Instead he looks at the pictures, trying to decide if he's going to take any with him.

“Who is she?” Pepper asks from behind him, pointing at a picture of Audrey taken during a concert. It's perched next to a picture of the three of them, smiling and happy, and the sight of it makes his heart ache.

“Our girlfriend,” he says bluntly, not even a little bit in the mood to beat around the bush. “You've probably heard of her. The cellist?”

“Oh,” Pepper says, as if all the pieces of information she knows just clicked together. She takes the news with surprising aplomb, as if gay married men dated women all the time, and doesn't ask any questions. Clint appreciates that, but he finds he's completely over looking at the remains of his life and decides that the last thing he needs are pictures to remind him of all the things he's lost.

He tells Pepper to just pack up the rest and retreats into the kitchen. Natasha had taken the initiative to make some coffee and there's a ridiculously large mug sitting on the table for him. From the looks of the bottle on the counter, it's spiked. Dear, blessed woman.

Clint sits across from her at the table as the SI movers do their thing. They don't say anything, both lost in their memories, but Clint is fiercely glad she's here.

“Please don't die,” he says without meaning to, startling himself and feeling a faint blush of embarrassment. He doesn't take it back though.

Natasha's eyes widen a bit in surprise, but then she reaches out and takes one of Clint's hands in hers. “I'll do my best,” she promises. It's not enough, but it will have to be.

It takes an hour for the movers to strip the place bare. Pepper is breezily competent and efficient and it's better, dealing with this with her here, but it still sucks.

Clint is the last to leave the apartment. It's unrecognizable, with its bare walls and exposed hardwood floors. When Clint closes his eyes, the memory of how it was is still sharp and clear, as if it is a place somewhere he can go to. As if he can find it one day and walk in and everything will be as it should be.

A child's fantasy. Empty walls is all that's left of that life. He turns and walks away, footsteps echoing, and wonders how many times he has to say goodbye.

–

“Thank you for telling me,” Amy says softly. They're once again on the roof of headquarters. She is once again sketching and he is once again perched above her, looking up at the sky.

“Why're you thanking me?”

“Because I know how bothered you are about being on watch, and I appreciate the trust you're showing by telling me something that might effect that. Makes my job a lot easier.”

Clint snorts. “I didn't really have a choice. Nat would have told you either way.”

Amy hums, not looking up from her sketches. “And does that bother you? That she would go over your head like that, make that choice for you?”

Clint considers this for a moment, and then shrugs. “A little, yea, but she's my partner. I trust her to have my back and I can't... I can't see things very clearly, right now.”

Amy nods in understanding. “You know it's her way of taking care of you,” she clarifies

“Yeah. And also... also that she cares more about looking out for me than she cares about me being angry at her. That's... nice, in a weird way I guess.”

She nods again, and they sit for a little while in comfortable silence. Clint suspects that she can hear the question bouncing around in his mind and she's just waiting for him to spit it out.

“I'm not getting this thing off my wrist in a week, am I?” he asks, bracing himself.

“Do you think you should?”

That's actually not the response he was expecting. “What?”

“Do you think you're no longer a danger to yourself?”

“I'm not going to kill myself,” Clint snaps, annoyed.

“No, you're not, not on purpose. Nobody really thinks you will, Clint, but think back to what you just told me. What if someone hadn't been there with you?”

If Nat hadn't been there... well, chances are Clint would be lying in some alley with his skull split open.

Amy nods, as if she sees his understanding. “The point of the watch isn't to punish you, Clint, or to treat you like a child. It's to make sure someone is always around to look out for you, and that we can find you if you need help.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Of course you can. But _you_ _don't have to._ You have people who are looking out for you, Clint. Who want to see you safe. Can you tell them truthfully that you no longer need to be on watch? Can you tell Natasha while looking her in the eye?”

Clint doesn't answer. She knows what the answer is.

Clint runs his hands through his hair “I'm just so fucking _bored_ ,” he bursts out instead, his brain latching on to that gripe, and resentment and suppressed frustration surges through him. “I can't do anything but work out, shoot, sleep, and eat and it's driving me up a wall.”

Amy hums in consideration. “Tell you what,” she says after a beat. “I'll speak with the powers that be about giving you some jobs to do. It wont be much, since you're still on mandatory leave, but it will be something. Probably teaching, since you've showed some skill with that in the past. We can also lighten up on some of the restrictions on the understanding that you'll continue to be as open with me as you were today.”

Clint sighs in relief, something tight in his chest unknotting. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

A pause, then. “We have twenty minutes left in our session, but I think we've done enough talking today, don't you? Why don't we just sit here and enjoy the weather.”

Clint leans back with his hands behind his head and thinks, not for the first time, that she is very, very good at her job.

“Sounds like a great idea.”


	4. Interlude: TAHITI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick Fury and Maria Hill have a conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude before the next chapter. Maria asks the question we all want the answer to.

“When are we telling Agent Barton about Project TAHITI?” Maria Hill asks, her voice deceptively neutral and professional. Nick has to suppress the urge to sigh. This is not the first time she's asked that question, but they've been working together long enough that he sees her digging in her heels, preparing for a fight on this one.

Nick cannot afford that. “When the time is right,” he tells her, looking at her straight in the eye and infusing warmth and steel in his words; he is not dismissing her concerns, he is asking for her faith.

Maria knows a lot of his tricks at this point in the game (not all, though, never all), and she will not be put off. Nick mentally prepares himself for the upcoming skirmish, shuffling explanations in his head like a deck of cards. None of them are lies, precisely, but they're not the whole truth, either.

“Ballpark timetable?” She asks, still neutral, still professional, most of her attention focused on her tablet like they're just planning another op, like the answer doesn't matter to her either way and she just needs the information so she can do her job. Nick isn't fooled for a second.

“None as of yet,” He says calmly, playing along for the moment. “We're still not even sure it worked; making plans at this point would be premature.”

“I thought the doctors where planning to bring him out of the coma within the next week.”

“They are,” Nick agrees mildly. “And they tell me they are 'cautiously optimistic' about the outcome. You know how I feel about optimism.”

“Assume it does go well,” Maria says, placing her tablet to the side and folding her hands on the desk in front of her. “How long do we let Agent Barton mourn needlessly? Agent Romanoff?”

Aha, there's the real sticking point. Maria is fond and protective of Hawkeye, but that's largely a result of him and the Black Widow being a matched set. Nick folds his hands in front of him as well, leaning forward to impress the importance of what he's about to say.

“At this point, we don't know that it _is_ needless, Maria. The things we're doing with TAHITI go so far beyond experimental, they're not even on the same planet. Bringing in Barton and Romanoff is not just an unnecessary risk, it's cruel. Now, I'm a lot of things, but pointlessly cruel is not one of them. How about you?”

“No sir,” Maria says crisply, but she stares him down for a few long moments. They have a silent battle of wills, but eventually she her tablet back up, returning to the mission at hand on the screen. Nick breaths an internal sigh of relief even as she asks “Shall I take that to mean we tell them when they _do_ know for sure?” 

Nick leans back in his chair and laces his fingers over his stomach, shooting her a wryly amused look. “Hill, if you think I'm going to commit to a course of action this early in the game, I'm gonna have to write you up for stealing the good drugs from medical.”

“Wouldn't dream of it, sir.”

The subject isn't brought up again during that meeting, but he doesn't fool himself into thinking the conversation is over. Maria is stubborn, and it won't be long until she gets the bit back between her teeth and forces the issue again. That is, of course, unless TAHITI fails, and renders the point moot.

Honestly, he really hopes the conversation isn't over.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Duet in E Minor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1756905) by [Ylixia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ylixia/pseuds/Ylixia)




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